THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

MARGARET  PEDLER 


UNIV.   OF  CALIF.   LIBKARY.   LOS  ANGELES 


THE 

SPLENDID  FOLLY 


BY 

MARGARET  PEDLER 

ATTTHOR  OF  "THE  HOUSE  OF  DBEAMS-COME-TBUB," 
"THE  HERMIT  OF  FAR  END,"  ETC. 


- 


NEW 

H.  DOKAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1921. 
BY  MARGARET  PEDLER 


FRIST-TED  TN  THE  TJOTTED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  MY  HUSBAND 

W.  G.  Q.  PEDLER 


2131944 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I  THE  VERDICT 11 

II  FELLOW-TRAVELLERS 23 

III  AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DEATH 33 

IV  CRAILING  RECTORY 41 

V  THE  SECOND  MEETING 52 

VI  THE  AFTERMATH  or  AN  ADVENTURE  ...  63 

VII  DIANA  SINGS 76 

VIII  MRS.  LAWRENCE'S  HOSPITALITY     ....  85 

IX  A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS 96 

X  Miss  LERMONTOF'S  ADVICE 107 

XI  THE  YEAR'S  FRUIT 123 

XII  MAX  ERRINGTON'S  RETURN      -      .     .     .     .133 

XIII  THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY 143 

XIV  THE  FLAME  OF  LOVE      .......  157 

XV  DIANA'S  DECISION 168 

XVI  BARONI'S  OPINION  OF  MATRIMONY      .     .     .  *173 

XVII  "WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  TOGETHER"  .     .  182 

XVIII  THE  APPROACHING  SHADOW 188 

XIX  THE  "FIRST  NIGHT"  PERFORMANCE    .     .     .  197 

XX  THE  SHADOW  FALLS 206 

XXI  THE  OTHER  WOMAN 216 

XXII  THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS     .      .  229 


PAGE 

236 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XXIII  PAIN 

XXIV  THE  VISION  OF  LOVE 243 

XXV  BREAKING-POINT 250 

XXVI  THE  REAPING 257 

XXVII  CARLO  BABONI  EXPLAINS 268 

XXVIII  THE  AWAKENING 274 

XXIX  SACRIFICE   .                .     .  281 


THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 


THE   HAVEN   OF   MEMORY 

Do  you  remember 

Our  great  love's  pure  unfolding, 
The  troth  you  gave, 

And  prayed  for  God's  upholding, 
Long  and  long  ago? 

Out  of  the  past 

A  dream — and  then  the  waking — 
Comes  back  to  me, 

Of  love  and  love's  forsaking, 
Ere  the  summer  waned. 

Ah!    Let  me  dream 
That  still  a  little  kindness 

Dwelt  in  the  smile 
That  chid  my  foolish  blindness, 
When  you  said  good-bye. 

Let  me  remember, 

When  I  am  very  lonely, 
How  once  your  love 

But  crowned  and  blessed  me  only, 
Long  and  long  ago! 


MARGARET  PEDLER. 


NOTE: — Musical  setting  by  laador  Epstein.  Published  by  G.  Ricordi  &  Co.,  14  East  43rd 
Sireet,  New  York. 


THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  VERDICT 

THE  March  wind  swirled  boisterously  down  Grellingham 
Place,  catching  up  particles  of  grit  and  scraps  of  paper 
on  his  way  and  making  them  a  torment  to  the  passers-by, 
just  as  though  the  latter  were  not  already  amply  occupied 
in  trying  to  keep  their  hats  on  their  heads. 

But  the  blustering  fellow  cared  nothing  at  all  about  that 
as  he  drove  rudely  against  them,  slapping  their  faces  and 
blinding  their  eyes  with  eddies  of  dust;  on  the  contrary, 
after  he  had  swept  forwards  like  a  tornado  for  a  matter  oi 
fifty  yards  or  so  he  paused,  as  if  in  search  of  some  fresh  devil- 
ment, and  espied  a  girl  beating  her  way  up  the  street  and 
carrying  a  roll  of  music  rather  loosely  in  the  crook  of  her 
arm.  In  an  instant  he  had  snatched  the  roll  away  and  sent 
the  sheets  spread-eagling  up  the  street,  looking  like  so  many 
big  white  butterflies  as  they  flapped  and  whirled  deliriously 
hither  and  thither. 

The  girl  made  an  ineffectual  grab  at  them  and  then  dashed 
in  pursuit,  while  a  small  greengrocer's  boy,  whose  time  was 
his  master's  (ergo,  his  own),  joined  in  the  chase  with  en- 
thusiasm. 

Given  a  high  wind  and  half-a-dozen  loose  sheets  of  music, 
the  elusive  quality  of  the  latter  seems  to  be  something  almost 
supernatural,  not  to  say  diabolical,  and  the  pursuit  would 
probably  have  been  a  lengthy  one  but  for  the  fact  that  & 

11 


12  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

tall  man,  who  was  rapidly  advancing  from  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, seeing  the  girl's  predicament,  came  to  her  help  and 
headed  off  the  truant  sheets.  Within  a  few  moments  the 
combined  efforts  of  the  girl,  the  man,  and  the  greengrocer's 
boy  were  successful  in  gathering  them  together  once  more, 
and  having  tipped  the  boy,  who  had  entered  thoroughly  into 
the  spirit  of  the  thing  and  who  was  grinning  broadly,  she 
turned,  laughing  and  rather  breathless,  to  thank  the  man. 

But  the  laughter  died  suddenly  away  from  her  lips  as  she 
encountered  the  absolute  lack  of  response  in  his  face.  It 
remained  quite  grave  and  unsmiling,  exactly  as  though  its 
owner  had  not  been  engaged,  only  two  minutes  before,  in  a 
wild  and  undignified  chase  after  half-a-dozen  sheets  of  paper 
which  persisted  in  pirouetting  maddeningly  just  out  of  reach. 

The  face  was  that  of  a  man  of  about  thirty-five,  clean- 
shaven and  fair-skinned,  with  arresting  blue  eyes  of  that 
peculiar  piercing  quality  which  seems  to  read  right  into  the 
secret  places  of  one's  mind.  The  features  were  clear-cut — 
straight  nose,  square  chin,  the  mouth  rather  sternly  set,  yet 
with  a  delicate  uplift  at  its  corners  that  gave  it  a  singularly 
sweet  expression. 

The  girl  faltered. 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  murmured  at  last. 

The  man's  deep-set  blue  eyes  swept  her  from  head  to  foot 
in  a  single  comprehensive  glance. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  have  been  of  service,"  he  said  briefly. 

With  a  slight  bow  he  raised  his  hat  and  passed  on,  moving 
swiftly  down  the  street,  leaving  her  staring  surprisedly  after 
him  and  vaguely  feeling  that  she  had  been  snubbed. 

To  Diana  Quentin  this  sensation  was  something  of  a  nov- 
elty. As  a  rule,  the  men  who  were  brought  into  contact 
with  her  quite  obviously  acknowledged  her  distinctly  charm- 
ing personality,  but  this  one  had  marched  away  with  uncom- 
promising haste  and  as  unconcernedly  as  though  she  had 
been  merely  the  greengrocer's  boy,  and  he  had  been  assisting 
him  in  the  recovery  of  some  errant  Brussels  sprouts. 


THE  VERDICT  13 

For  a  moment  an  amused  smile  hovered  about  her  lips; 
then  the  recollection  of  her  business  in  Grellingham  Place 
came  back  to  her  with  a  suddenly  sobering  effect  and  she 
hastened  on  her  way  up  the  street,  pausing  at  last  at  No.  57. 
She  mounted  the  steps  reluctantly,  and  with  a  nervous, 
spasmodic  intake  of  the  breath  pressed  the  bell-button. 

No  one  came  to  answer  the  door — for  the  good  and  suf- 
ficient reason  that  Diana's  timid  pressure  had  failed  to 
elicit  even  the  faintest  sound — and  its  four  blank  brown 
panels  seemed  to  stare  at  her  forbiddingly.  She  stared  back 
at  them,  her  heart  sinking  ever  lower  and  lower  the  while, 
for  behind  those  repellent  portals  dwelt  the  great  man  whose 
"Yea"  or  "N"ay"  meant  so  much  to  her — Carlo  Baroni,  the 
famous  teacher  of  singing,  whose  verdict  upon  any  voice 
was  one  from  which  there  could  be  no  appeal. 

Diana  wondered  how  many  other  aspirants  to  fame  had 
lingered  like  herself  upon  that  doorstep,  their  hearts  beating 
high  with  hope,  only  to  descend  the  white-washed  steps  a 
brief  hour  later  with  the  knowledge  that  from  the  standpoint 
of  the  musical  profession  their  voices  were  useless  for  all 
practical  purposes,  and  with  their  pockets  lighter  by  two 
guineas,  the  maestro  s  fee  for  an  opinion. 

The  wind  swept  up  the  street  again  and  Diana  shivered, 
her  teeth  chattering  partly  with  oold  but  even  more  with 
nervousness.  This  was  a  bad  preparation  for  the  Doming 
interview,  and  with  an  irritation  born  of  despair  she  pressed 
the  bell-button  to  such  good  purpose  that  she  could  hear 
footsteps  approaching,  almost  before  the  trill  of  the  bell 
had  vibrated  into  silence. 

An  irreproachable  man-servant,  with  the  face  of  a  sphinx, 
opened  the  door. 

Diana  tried  to  speak,  failed,  then,  moistening  her  lips, 
jerked  out  the  words:— 

"Signor  Baroni  #' 

'*HaVe  yoii  an  appointment  ?"  came  the  relentless  incfuiry, 


14  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

and  Diana  could  well  imagine  how  inexorably  the  greatly 
daring  who  had  come  on  chance  would  be  turned  away. 

"Yes — oh,  yes,"  she  stammered.  "For  three  o'clock — 
Miss  Diana  Quentin." 

"Come  this  way,  please."  The  man  stood  aside  for  her 
to  enter,  and  a  minute  later  she  found  herself  following  him 
through  a  narrow  hall  to  the  door  of  a  room  whence  issued 
the  sound  of  a  softly-played  pianoforte  accompaniment. 

The  sphinx-like  one  threw  open  the  door  and  announced 
her  name,  and  with  quaking  knees  she  entered. 

The  room  was  a  large  one.  At  its  further  end  stood  a 
grand  piano,  so  placed  that  whoever  was  playing  commanded 
a  full  view  of  the  remainder  of  the  room,  and  at  this  moment 
the  piano-stool  was  occupied  by  Signer  Baroni  himself,  evi- 
dently in  the  midst  of  giving  a  lesson  to  a  young  man  who 
was  standing  at  his  elbow.  He  was  by  no  means  typically 
Italian  in  appearance;  indeed,  his  big  frame  and  finely- 
shaped  head  with  its  massive,  Beethoven  brow  reminded  one 
forcibly  of  the  fact  that  his  mother  had  been  of  German 
origin.  But  the  heavy-lidded,  prominent  eyes,  neither  brown 
nor  hazel  but  a  mixture  of  the  two,  and  the  sallow  skin  and 
long,  mobile  lips — these  were  unmistakably  Italian.  The 
nose  was  slightly  Jewish  in  its  dominating  quality,  and  the 
hair  that  was  tossed  back  over  his  head  and  descended  to 
the  edge  of  his  collar  with  true  musicianly  luxuriance  was 
grizzled  by  sixty  years  of  strenuous  life.  It  would  seem 
that  God  had  taken  an  Italian,  a  German,  and  a  Jew,  and 
out  of  them  welded  a  surpassing  genius. 

Baroni  nodded  casually  towards  Diana,  and,  still  con- 
tinuing to  play  with  one  hand,  gestured  towards  an  easy- 
chair  with  the  other. 

"How  do  you  do?  Will  you  sit  down,  please,"  he  said, 
speaking  with  a  strong,  foreign  accent,  and  then  apparently 
forgot  all  about  her. 

"Now" — he  turned  to  the  young  man  whose  lesson  her 


THE  VERDICT  15 

entry  had  interrupted — "we  will  haf  this  through  once  more. 
Bee-gin,  please:  'In  all  humility  I  worship  thee.' ' 

Obediently  the  young  man  opened  his  mouth,  and  in  a 
magnificent  baritone  voice  declaimed  that  reverently,  and 
from  a  great  way  off,  he  ventured  to  worship  at  his  beloved's 
shrine,  while  Diana  listened  spell-bound. 

If  this  were  the  only  sort  of  voice  Baroni  condescended  to 
train,  what  chance  had  she  ?  And  the  young  man's  singing 
3eemed  so  finished,  the  fervour  of  his  passion  was  so  ve- 
hemently rendered,  that  she  humbly  wondered  that  there 
still  remained  anything  for  him  to  learn.  It  was  almost 
like  listening  to  a  professional. 

Quite  suddenly  Baroni  dropped  his  hands  from  the  piano 
and  surveyed  the  singer  with  such  an  eloquent  mixture  of 
disgust  and  bitter  contempt  in  his  extraordinarily  expressive 
eyes  that  Diana  positively  jumped. 

"Ach!  So  that  is  your  idea  of  a  humble  suitor,  is  it?" 
he  said,  and  though  he  never  raised  his  voice  above  the 
rather  husky,  whispering  tones  that  seemed  habitual  to  him, 
it  cut  like  a  lash.  Later,  Diana  was  to  learn  that  Baroni's 
most  scathing  criticisms  and  most  furious  reproofs  were 
always  delivered  in  a  low,  half-whispering  tone  that  fairly 
seared  the  victim.  "That  is  your  idea,  then — to  shout,  and 
yell,  and  bellow  your  love  like  a  caged  bull  ?  When  will  you 
learn  that  music  is  not  noise,  and  that  love — love" — and  the 
odd,  husky  voice  thrilled  suddenly  to  a  note  as  soft  and  tender 
as  the  cooing  of  a  wood-pigeon — "can  be  expressed  piano — 
ah,  but  pianissimo — as  well  as  by  blowing  great  blasts  of 
sound  from  those  leathern  bellows  which  you  call  your 
lungs?" 

The  too-forceful  baritone  stood  abashed,  shifting  uneasily 
from  one  foot  to  the  other.  With  a  swift  motion  Baroui 
swept  up  the  music  from  the  piano  and  shovelled  it  pell-mell 
into  the  young  man's  arms. 

"Uh,  go  aw&y,  gb  away!"  he  said  impatiently.     "You 


16  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

are  a  voice — just  a  voice — and  nothing  more.  You  will 
nevaire  be  an  artist !";  And  he  turned  his  back  on  him. 

Very  dejectedly  the  young  man  made  his  way  towards 
the  door,  whilst  Diana,  overcome  with  sympathy  and  horror 
at  his  abrupt  dismissal,  could  hardly  refrain  from  rushing 
forward  to  intercede  for  him. 

And  then,  to  her  intense  amazement,  Baroni  whisked  sud- 
denly round,  and  following  the  young  man  to  the  door,  laid 
his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Au  revoir,  mon  brave/'  he  said,  with  the  utmost  bon- 
homie. "Bring  the  song  next  time  and  we  will  go  through 
it  again.  But  do  not  be  discouraged — no,  for  there  is  no 
need.  It  will  come — it  will  come.  But  remember,  piano 
— piano — pianissimo  !" 

And  with  a  reassuring  pat  on  the  shoulder  he  pushed  the 
young  man  affectionately  through  the  doorway  and  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

So  he  had  not  been  dismissed  in  disgrace  after  all !  Diana 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  and,  looking  up,  found  Signor 
Baroni  regarding  her  with  a  large  and  benevolent  smile. 

"You  theenk  I  was  too  severe  with  him  ?"  he  said  placidly. 
"But  no.  He  is  like  iron,  that  young  man ;  he  wants  ham- 
mer-blows." 

"I  think  he  got  them,"  replied  Diana  crisply,  and  then 
stopped,  aghast  at  her  own  temerity.  She  glanced  anxiously 
at  Baroni  to  see  if  he  had  resented  her  remark,  only  to  find 
him  surveying  her  with  a  radiant  smile  and  looking  exactly 
like  a  large,  pleased  child. 

"We  shall  get  on,  the  one  with  the  other,"  he  observed 
contentedly.  "Yes,  we  shall  get  on.  And  now — who  are 
you?  I  do  not  remember  names" — with  a  terrific  roll  of 
his  R's — "but  you  haf  a  very  pree-ty  face — and  I  never 
forget  a  pree-ty  face." 

"Fin — I'm  Diana  Quentin,"  she  blurted  out,  nervtMsness 
once  more  crvterpdwtering  her  as  she  realised  that  tite  niomont 


THE  VERDICT  17 

of  her  ordeal  was  approaching.  "I've  come  to  have  my  voice 
tried." 

Baroni  picked  up  a  memorandum  book  from  his  table, 
turning  over  the  pages  till  he  came  to  her  name. 

"Ach !  I  remember  now.  Miss  Waghorne — my  old  pupil 
— sent  you.  She  has  been  teaching  you,  isn't  it  so  2" 

Diana  nodded. 

"Yes,  I've  had  a  few  lessons  from  her,  and  she  hoped  that 
possibly  you  would  take  me  as  a  pupil." 

It  was  out  at  last — the  proposal  which  now,  in  the  actual 
presence  of  the  great  man  himself,  seemed  nothing  less  than 
a  piece  of  stupendous  presumption. 

Signor  Baroni's  eyes  roamed  inquiringly  over  the  face 
and  figure  of  the  girl  before  him — quite  possibly  querying 
as  to  whether  or  no  she  possessed  the  requisite  physique  for 
a  singer.  Nevertheless,  the  great  master  was  by  no  means 
proof  against  the  argument  of  a  pretty  face.  There  was  a 
story  told  of  him  that,  on  one  occasion,  a  girl  with  an  ex- 
ceptionally fine  voice  had  been  brought  to  him,  some  wealthy 
patroness  having  promised  to  defray  the  expenses  of  her 
training  if  Baroni  would  accept  her  as  a  pupil.  Unfortu- 
nately, the  girl  was  distinctly  plain,  with  a  quite  uninterest- 
ing plainness  of  the  pasty,  podgy  description,  and  after  he 
had  heard  her  sing,  the  maestro,  first  dismissing  her  from 
the  room,  had  turned  to  the  lady  who  was  prepared  to  stand 
sponsor  for  her,  and  had  said,  with  an  inimitable  shrug  of 
his  massive  shoulders: — 

"The  voice — it  is  all  right.  But  the  girl — heavens, 
madame,  she  is  of  an  ugliness!  And  I  cannot  teach  ugly 
people.  She  has  the  face  of  a  peeg — please  take  her  away." 

But  there  was  little  fear  that  a  similar  fate  would  befall 
Diana.  Her  figure,  though  slight  with  the  slenderness  of  im- 
maturity, was  built  on  the  right  lines,  and  her  young, 
eager  face,  in  its  frame  of  raven  hair,  was  as  vivid  as  a 
flower — its  clear  pallor  serving  but  to  emphasise  the  beauty 
of  the  straight,  dark  brows  and  of  the  scarlet  mouth  with 


18  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

its  ridiculously  short  upper-lip.  Her  eyes  were  of  that 
peculiarly  light  grey  which,  when  accompanied,  as  hers  were, 
by  thick  black  lashes,  gives  an  almost  startling  impression 
each  time  the  lids  are  lifted,  an  odd  suggestion  of  inner 
radiance  that  was  vividly  arresting. 

An  intense  vitality,  a  curious  shy  charm,  the  sensitive- 
ness inseparable  from  the  artist  nature — all  these,  and 
more,  Baroni's  experienced  eye  read  in  Diana's  upturned 
face,  but  it  yet  remained  for  him  to  test  the  quality  of  her 
vocal  organs. 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  he  said  non-committally.  "I  do  not 
take  many  pupils." 

Diana's  heart  sank  yet  a  little  lower,  and  she  felt  almost 
tempted  to  seek  refuge  in  immediate  flight  rather  than  re- 
main to  face  the  inevitable  dismissal  that  she  guessed  would 
be  her  portion. 

Baroni,  however,  put  a  summary  stop  to  any  such  wild 
notions  by  turning  on  her  with  the  lightning-like  change 
of  mood  which  she  came  afterwards  to  know  as  characteristic 
of  him. 

"You  haf  brought  some  songs?"  He  held  out  his  hand. 
"Good.  Let  me  see  them." 

He  glanced  swiftly  through  the  roll  of  music  which  she 
tendered. 

"This  one — we  will  try  this.  Now" — seating  himself  at 
the  piano — "open  your  mouth,  little  nightingale,  and  sing." 

Softly  he  played  the  opening  bars  of  the  prelude  to  the 
song,  and  Diana  watched  fascinatedly  while  he  made  the 
notes  speak,  and  sing,  and  melt  into  each  other  with  his 
short  stumpy  fingers  that  looked  as  though  they  and  music 
would  have  little  enough  in  common. 

"Now  then.     Bee-gin." 

And  Diana  began.  But  she  was  so  nervous  that  she  felt 
as  though  her  throat  had  suddenly  closed  up,  and  only  a 
faint,  quavering  note  issued  from  her  lips,  breaking  off 
abruptly  in  a  hoarse  croak. 


THE  VERDICT  19 

Baroni  stopped  playing. 

"Tchut !  she  is  frightened,"  he  said,  and  laid  an  encourag- 
ing hand  on  her  shoulder.  "But  do  not  be  frightened,  my 
dear.  You  haf  a  pree-ty  face ;  if  your  voice  is  as  pree-ty  as 
your  face  you  need  not  haf  fear." 

Diana  was  furious  with  herself  for  failing  at  the  critical 
moment,  and  even  more  angry  at  Baroni's  speech,  in  which 
she  sensed  a  suggestion  of  the  tolerance  extended  to  the 
aYer.pge  drawing-room  singer  of  mediocre  powers. 

"I  don't  want  to  have  a  pretty  voice!"  she  broke  out,  pas- 
sionately. "I  wouldn't  say  thank  you  for  it." 

And  anger  having  swallowed  up  her  nervousness,  she 
opened  her  mouth — and  her  throat  with  it  this  time? — and 
let  out  the  full  powers  that  were  hidden  within  her  nice 
big  larynx. 

When  she  ceased,  Baroni  closed  the  open  pages  of  the 
song,  and  turning  on  his  stool,  regarded  her  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"No,"  he  said  at  last,  dispassionately.  "It  is  certainly 
not  a  pree-ty  voice." 

To  Diana's  ears  there  was  such  a  tone  of  indifference, 
such  an  air  of  utter  finality  about  the  brief  speech,  that  she 
felt  she  would  have  been  eternally  grateful  now  could  she 
only  have  passed  the  low  standard  demanded  by  the  pos- 
session of  even  a  merely  "pretty"  voice. 

"So  this  is  the  voice  you  bring  me  to  cultivate  ?"  continued 
the  maestro.  "This  that  sounds  like  the  rumblings  of  a 
subterranean  earthquake?  Boom!  boo-o-om!  Like  that, 
nicht  wahr?" 

Diana  crimsoned,  and,  feeling  her  knees  giving  way  be- 
neath her,  sank  into  the  nearest  chair,  while  Baroni  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  her. 

"Then — then  you  cannot  take  me  as  a  pupil?"  she  said 
faintly. 

Apparently  he  did  not  hear  her,  for  he  asked  abruptly: — 

"Are  you  prepared  to  give  up  everything — everything  in 


20  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

the  world  for  art  ?  She  is  no  easy  task-mistress,  remember  1 
She  will  want  a  great  deal  of  your  time,  and  she  will  rob 
you  of  your  pleasures,  and  for  her  sake  you  will  haf  to  take 
care  of  your  body — to  guard  your  physical  health — as  though 
it  were  the  most  precious  thing  on  earth.  To  become  a  great 
singer,  a  great  artiste,  means  a  life  of  self-denial.  Are  you 
prepared  for  this?" 

"But — but "  stammered  Diana  in  astonishment.  "If 

my  voice  is  not  even  pretty — if  it  is  no  good " 

"No  good?"  he  exclaimed,  leaping  to  his  feet  with  a  ra- 
pidity of  movement  little  short  of  marvellous  in  a  man  of 
his  size  and  bulk.  "Gran  Dio!  No  good,  did  you  say? 
But,  my  child,  you  haf  a  voice  of  gold — pure  gold.  In  three 
years  of  my  training  it  will  become  the  voice  of  the  century. 
Tchut!  No  good!" 

He  pranced  nimbly  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open. 

"Giulia !  Giulia !"  he  shouted,  and  a  minute  later  a  fat, 
amiable-looking  woman,  whose  likeness  to  Baroni  proclaimed 
them  brother  and  sister,  came  hurrying  downstairs  in  answer 
to  his  call.  "Signora  Evanci,  my  sister,"  he  said,  nodding 
to  Diana.  "This,  Giulia,  is  a  new  pupil,  and  I  would  haf 
you  hear  her  voice.  It  is  magnificent — epatant !  Open  your 
mouth,  little  singing-bird,  once  more.  This  time  we  will  haf 
some  scales." 

Bewildered  and  excited,  Diana  sang  again,  Baroni  test- 
ing the  full  compass  of  her  voice  until  quite  suddenly  he 
shut  down  the  lid  of  the  piano. 

"It  is  enough,"  he  said  solemnly,  and  then,  turning  to 
Signora  Evanci,  began  talking  to  her  in  an  excited  jumble 
of  English  and  Italian.  Diana  caught  broken  phrases  here 
and  there. 

"Of  a  quality  superb!  .  .  .  And  a  beeg  compass  which 
will  grow  beeger  yet.  .  .  .  The  contralto  of  the  century, 
Giulia." 

And  Signora  Evanci  smiled  and  nodded  agreement,  pat- 
ting Diana's  hand,  and  reminded  Baroni  that  it  was  time 


THE  VERDICT  21 

for  his  afternoon  cup  of  consomme.  She  was  a  comfortable 
feather-bed  of  a  woman,  whose  mission  in  life  it  seemed  to 
be  to  fend  off  from  her  brother  all  sharp  corners,  and  to  see 
that  he  took  his  food  at  the  proper  intervals  and  changed 
into  the  thick  underclothing  necessitated  by  the  horrible 
English  climate. 

"But  it  will  want  much  training,  your  voice,"  continued 
Baroni,  turning  once  more  to  Diana.  "It  is  so  beeg  that 
it  is  all  over  the  place — it  sounds  like  a  clap  of  thunder  that 
has  lost  his  way  in  a  back  garden."  And  he  smiled  indul- 
gently. "To  bee-gin  with,  you  will  put  away  all  your 
songs — every  one.  There  will  be  nothing  but  exercises  for 
months  yet.  And  you  will  come  for  your  first  lesson  on 
Thursday.  Mondays  and  Thursdays  I  will  teach  you,  but 
you  must  come  other  days,  also,  and  listen  at  my  lessons. 
There  is  much — very  much — learned  by  listening,  if  one 
listens  with  the  brain  as  well  as  with  the  ear.  Now,  little 
singing-bird,  good-bye.  I  will  go  with  you  myself  to  the 
door." 

The  whole  thing  seemed  too  impossibly  good  to  be  true. 
Diana  felt  as  if  she  were  in  the  middle  of  a  beautiful  dream 
from  which  she  might  at  any  moment  waken  to  the  disap- 
pointing reality  of  things.  Hardly  able  to  believe  the  evi- 
dence of  her  senses,  she  found  herself  once  again  in  the 
narrow  hall,  shepherded  by  the  maestro's  portly  form.  As 
he  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out  into  the  street, 
some  one  ran  quickly  up  the  steps,  pausing  on  the  topmost. 

"Ha,  Olga!"  exclaimed  Baroni,  beaming.  "You  haf 
returned  just  too  late  to  hear  Mees  Quentin.  But  you  will 
play  for  her — many  times  yet."  Then,  turning  to  Diana, 
he  added  by  way  of  introduction:  "This  is  my  accompan- 
ist, Mees  Lermontof." 

Diana  received  the  impression  of  a  thin,  satirical  face, 
its  unusual  pallor  picked  out  by  the  black  brows  and  hair, 
of  a  bitter-looking  mouth  that  hardly  troubled  itself  to  smile 
in  salutation,  and,  above  all,  of  a  pair  of  queer  green  eyes, 


22  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

which,  as  the  heavy,  opaque  white  lids  above  them  lifted, 
seemed  slowly — and  rather  contemptuously — to  take  her  in 
from  head  to  foot. 

She  bowed,  and  as  Miss  Lermontof  inclined  her  head 
slightly  in  response,  there  was  a  kind  of  cold  aloofness  in 
her  bearing — a  something  defiantly  repellent — which  filled 
Diana  with  a  sudden  sense  of  dislike,  almost  of  fear.  It 
was  as  though  the  sun  had  all  at  once  gone  behind  a  cloud. 

The  Baroni's  voice  fell  on  her  ears,  and  the  disagreeable 
tension  snapped. 

"A  rivederci,  little  singing-bird.  On  Thursday  we  will 
bee-gin." 

The  door  closed  on  the  maestro's  benevolently  smiling  face, 
and  on  that  other — the  dark,  satirical  face  of  Olga  Ler- 
montof— and  Diana  found  herself  once  again  breasting  the 
March  wind  as  it  came  roystering  up  through  Grellinghain 
Place. 


CHAPTER  II 

FELLOW-TBAVELLEES 

LOOK  sharp,  miss,  jump  in !  Luggage  in  the  rear  van." 
The  porter  hoisted  her  almost  bodily  up  the  steps  of 
the  railway  carriage,  slamming  the  door  behind  her,  the 
guard's  whistle  shrieked,  and  an  instant  later  the  train 
started  with  a  jerk  that  sent  Diana  staggering  against  the 
seat  of  the  compartment,  upon  which  she  finally  subsided, 
breathless  but  triumphant. 

She  had  very  nearly  missed  the  train.  An  organised  pro- 
cession of  some  kind  had  been  passing  through  the  streets 
just  as  she  was  driving  to  the  station,  and  her  taxi  had  been 
held  up  for  the  full  ten  minutes'  grace  which  she  had  al- 
lowed herself,  the  metre  fairly  ticking  its  heart  out  in  im- 
potent rage  behind  the  policeman's  uplifted  hand. 

So  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  she  found  herself  at 
last  comfortably  installed  in  a  corner  seat  of  a  first-class 
carriage.  She  glanced  about  her  to  make  sure  that  she  had 
not  mislaid  any  of  her  hand  baggage  in  her  frantic  haste, 
and  this  point  being  settled  to  her  satisfaction,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  take  stock  of  her  fellow-traveller,  for  there  was 
one  other  person  in  the  compartment  besides  herself. 

He  was  sitting  in  the  corner  furthest  away,  his  back  to 
the  engine,  apparently  entirely  oblivious  of  her  presence. 
On  his  knee  rested  a  quarto  writing-pad,  and  he  appeared 
so  much  absorbed  in  what  he  was  writing  that  Diano  doubted 
whether  he  had  even  heard  the  commotion  occasioned  by 
her  sudden  entry. 

But  she  was  mistaken.  As  the  porter  had  bundled  her 
into  the  carriage,  the  man  in  the  corner  had  raised  a  pair 

23 


24  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

of  deep-set  blue  eyes,  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a 
half-startled  glance,  and  then,  with  the  barest  flicker  of  a 
smile,  had  let  his  eyes  drop  once  more  upon  his  writing-pad. 

Theji  he  crossed  out  the  word  "Kismet,"  which  he  had 
inadvertently  written. 

Diana  regarded  him  with  interest.  He  was  probably 
an  author,  she  decided,  and  since  a  year's  training  as  a 
professional  singer  had  brought  her  into  contact  with  all 
kinds  of  people  who  earned  their  livings  by  their  brains,  as 
she  herself  hoped  to  do  some  day,  she  instantly  felt  a 
friendly  interest  in  him.  She  liked,  too,  the  shape  of  the 
hand  that  held  the  fountain-pen ;  it  was  a  slender,  sensitive- 
looking  member  with  well-kept  nails,  and  Diana  always  ap- 
preciated nice  hands.  The  man's  head  was  bent  over  his 
work,  so  that  she  could  only  obtain  a  foreshortened  glimpse 
of  his  face,  but  he  possessed  a  supple  length  of  limb  that 
even  the  heavy  travelling-rug  tucked  around  his  knees  failed 
to  disguise,  and  there  was  a  certain  soigne  air  of  Tightness 
about  the  way  he  wore  his  clothes  which  pleased  her. 

Suddenly  becoming  conscious  that  she  was  staring  rather 
openly,  she  turned  her  eyes  away  and  looked  out  of  the 
window,  and  immediately  encountered  a  big  broad  label, 
pasted  on  to  the  glass,  with  the  word  "Reserved"  printed 
on  it  in  capital  letters.  The  letters,  of  course,  appeared  re- 
versed to  any  one  inside  the  carriage,  but  they  were  so  big 
and  black  and  hectoring  that  they  were  quite  easily  de- 
ciphered. 

Evidently,  in  his  violent  haste  to  get  her  on  board  the 
train,  the  porter  had  thrust  her  into  the  privacy  of  some 
one's  reserved  compartment,  that  some  one  being  the  man 
opposite.  What  a  horrible  predicament !  Diana  felt  hot  all 
over  with  embarrassment,  and,  starting  to  her  feet,  stammered 
out  a  confused  apology. 

The  man  in  the  corner  raised  his  head. 

"It  does  not  matter  in  the  least,"  he  assured  her  indiffer- 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS  25 

ently.  "Please  do  not  distress  yourself.  I  believe  the  train 
is  very  crowded ;  you  had  better  sit  down  again." 

The  chilly  lack  of  interest  in  his  tones  struck  Diana  with 
an  odd  sense  of  familiarity,  but  she  was  too  preoccupied  to 
dwell  on  it,  and  began  hastily  to  collect  together  her  dressing- 
case  and  other  odds  and  ends. 

"I'll  find  another  seat,"  she  said  stiffly,  and  made  her  way 
out  into  the  corridor  of  the  rocking  train. 

Her  search,  however,  proved  quite  futile;  every  compart- 
ment was  packed  with  people  hurrying  out  of  town  for 
Easter,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  returned. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  rather  shyly.  "Every  seat  is  taken. 
I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  put  up  with  me." 

Just  then  the  carriage  gave  a  violent  lurch,  as  the  express 
swung  around  a  bend,  and  Diana,  dropping  everything  she 
held,  made  a  frantic  clutch  at  the  rack  above  her  head,  while 
her  goods  and  chattels  shot  across  the  floor,  her  dressing-case 
sliding  gaily  along  till  its  wild  career  was  checked  against 
the  foot  of  the  man  in  the  corner. 

With  an  air  of  resignation  he  rose  and  retrieved  her  be- 
longings, placing  them  on  the  seat  opposite  her. 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had  taken  my  advice," 
he  observed,  with  a  sort  of  weary  patience. 

Diana  felt  unreasonably  angry  with  him. 

"Why  don't  you  say  'I  told  you  so'  at  once?"  she  said 
tartly. 

A  whimsical  smile  crossed  his  face. 

"Well,  I  did,  didn't  I?" 

He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  her,  steadying 
himself  with  one  hand  against  the  doorway,  and  her  ill- 
humour  vanishing  as  quickly  as  it  had  arisen,  she  returned 
the  smile. 

"Yes,  you  did.  And  you  were  quite  right,  too,"  she  ac- 
knowledged frankly. 

He  laughed  outright 


26  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Well  done!"  he  cried.  "Not  one  woman  in  twenty  will 
own  herself  in  the  wrong  as  a  rule." 

Diana  frowned. 

"I  don't  agree  with  you  at  all,"  she  bristled.  "Men  have 
a  ridiculous  way  of  lumping  all  women  together  and  then 
generalising  about  them." 

"Let's  discuss  the  question,"  he  said  gaily.  "May  I?" 
And  scarcely  waiting  for  her  permission,  he  deliberately 
moved  aside  her  things  and  seated  himself  opposite  her. 

"But  you  were  busy  writing,"  she  protested. 

He  threw  an  indifferent  glance  in  the  direction  of  his 
writing-pad,  where  it  lay  on  the  seat  in  the  corner. 

"Was  I  ?"  he  answered  calmly.  "Sometimes  there  are 
better  things  to  do  than  scribbling — pleasanter  ones,  any- 
way." 

Diana  flushed.  It  certainly  was  an  unusual  thing  to  do, 
to  get  into  conversation  with  an  unknown  man  with  whom 
one  chanced  to  be  travelling,  and  she  had  never  before  com- 
mitted such  a  breach  of  the  conventions — would  have  been 
shocked  at  the  bare  idea  of  it — but  there  was  something 
rather  irresistible  about  this  man's  cool  self-possession.  He 
seemed  to  assume  that  a  thing  must  of  necessity  be  right, 
since  he  chose  to  do  it. 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  eyes  watching  her  with  a  glint 
of  amusement  in  their  depths. 

"No,  it  isn't  quite  proper,"  he  agreed,  answering  her  un- 
spoken thought.  "But  I've  never  bothered  about  that  if  I 
really  wanted  to  do  a  thing.  And  don't  you  think" — still 
with  that  flicker  of  laughter  in  his  eyes — "that  it's  rather 
ridiculous,  when  two  human  beings  are  shut  up  in  a  box  to- 
gether for  several  hours,  for  each  of  them  to  behave  as 
though  the  other  weren't  there?" 

He  spoke  half-mockingly,  and  Diana  felt  that  within 
himself  he  was  ridiculing  her  prim  little  notions  of  conven- 
tionality. She  flushed  uncomfortably. 

"Yes,  I — I  suppose  so,"  she  faltered. 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS  27 

He  seemed  to  understand. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  gentleness.  "I 
wasn't  laughing  at  you,  hut  only  at  all  the  absurd  conven- 
tions By  which  we  cut  ourselves  off  from  many  an  hour  of 
pleasant  intercourse — just  as  though  we  had  any  too  many 
pleasures  in  life!  But  if  you  wish  it,  I'll  go  back  to  my 
corner." 

"No,  no,  don't  go,"  returned  Diana  hastily.  "It — it  was 
silly  of  me." 

"Then  we  may  talk  ?  Good.  I  shall  behave  quite  nicely, 
I  assure  you." 

Again  the  curiously  familiar  quality  in  his  voice!  She 
was  positive  she  had  heard  it  before — that  crisp,  unslurred 
enunciation,  with  its  keen  perception  of  syllabic  values,  so 
unlike  the  average  Englishman's  slovenly  rendering  of  his 
mother-tongue. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  he  asked,  smiling.  And 
then  the  swift,  hawk-like  glance  of  the  blue  eyes  brought 
with  it  a  sudden,  sure  sense  of  recognition,  stinging  the 
slumbering  cells  of  memory  into  activity.  A  picture  shaped 
itself  in  her  mind  of  a  blustering  March  day,  and  of  a  girl, 
a  man,  and  an  errand-boy,  careering  wildly  in  the  roadway 
of  a  London  street,  while  some  stray  sheets  of  music  went 
whirling  hither  and  thither  in  the  wind.  It  had  all  hap- 
pened a  year  ago,  on  that  critical  day  when  Baroni  had 
consented  to  accept  her  as  his  pupil,  but  the  recollection  of 
it,  and  the  odd,  snubbed  feeling  she  had  experienced  in  re- 
gard to  the  man  with  the  blue  eyes,  was  as  clear  in  her 
mind  as  though  it  had  occurred  only  yesterday. 

"I  believe  we  have  met  before,  haven't  we  ?"  she  said. 

The  look  of  gay  good-humour  vanished  suddenly  from  his 
face  and  an  expression  of  blank  inquiry  took  its  place. 

"I  think  not,"  he  replied. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  sure  of  it.  Don't  you  remember" — brightly 
— "about  a  year  ago.  I  was  carrying  some  music,  and  it  all 


28  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

blew  away  up  the  street  and  you  helped  me  to  collect  it 
again  ?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  think  you  must  be  mistaken,"  he  answered  regretfully. 

"No,  no,"  she  persisted,  but  beginning  to  experience  some 
slight  embarrassment.  (It  is  embarrassing  to  find  you  have 
betrayed  a  keen  and  vivid  recollection  of  a  man  who  has 
apparently  forgotten  that  he  ever  set  eyes  on  you!)  "Oh, 
you  must  remember — it  was  in  Grellingham  Place,  and  the 
greengrocer's  boy  helped  as  well." 

She  broke  off,  reading  the  polite  negation  in  his  face. 

"You  must  be  confusing  me  with  some  one  else.  I 
should  not  be  likely  to — forget — so  charming  a  rencontre." 

There  was  surely  a  veiled  mockery  in  his  composed  tones, 
irreproachably  courteous  though  they  were,  and  Diana  col- 
oured hotly.  Somehow,  this  man  possessed  the  faculty  of 
making  her  feel  awkward  and  self-conscious  and  horribly 
young;  he  himself  was  so  essentially  of  the  polished  type 
of  cosmopolitan  that  beside  him  she  felt  herself  to  be  as  raw 
and  crude  as  any  bread-and-butter  miss  fresh  from  the 
schoolroom.  Moreover,  she  had  an  inward  conviction  that 
in  reality  he  recollected  the  incident  in  Grellingham  Place 
as  clearly  as  she  did  herself,  although  he  refused  to  admit  it. 

She  relapsed  into  an  uncomfortable  silence,  and  presently 
the  attendant  from  the  restaurant  car  came  along  the  cor- 
ridor and  looked  in  to  ask  if  they  were  going  to  have  dinner 
on  the  train.  Both  nodded  an  affirmative. 

"Table  for  two?"  he  queried,  evidently  taking  them  to 
be  two  friends  travelling  together. 

Diana  was  about  to  enlighten  him  when  her  vis-d-vis 
leaned  forward  hastily. 

"Please,"  he  said  persuasively,  and  as  she  returned  no 
answer  he  apparently  took  her  silence  for  consent,  for  some- 
thing passed  unobtrusively  from  his  hand  to  that  of  the 
attendant,  and  the  latter  touched  his  hat  with  a  smiling — 

"Right  you  are,  sir !    I'll  reserve  a  table  for  two." 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS  29 

Diana  felt  that  the  acquaintance  was  progressing  rather 
faster  than  she  could  have  wished,  but  she  hardly  knew  how 
to  check  it.  Finally  she  mustered  up  courage  to  say  firmly : — 

"It  must  only  be  if  I  pay  for  my  own  dinner." 

"But,  of  course,"  he  answered  courteously,  with  the 
slightest  tinge  of  surprise  in  his  tones,  and  once  again  Diana 
felt  that  she  had  made  a  fool  of  herself  and  blushed  to  the 
tips  of  her  ears. 

A  faint  smile  trembled  for  an  instant  on  his  lips,  and 
then,  without  apparently  noticing  her  confusion,  he  began 
to  talk,  passing  easily  from  one  subject  to  another  until  she 
had  regained  her  confidence,  finally  leading  her  almost  im- 
perceptibly into  telling  him  about  herself. 

In  the  middle  of  dinner  she  paused,  aghast  at  her  own 
loquacity. 

"But  what  a  horrible  egotist  you  must  think  me!"  she 
exclaimed.  "I've  been  talking  about  my  own  affairs  all  the 
time." 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  interested.  This  Signor  Baroni  who 
is  training  your  voice — he  is  the  finest  teacher  in  the  world. 
You  must  have  a  very  beautiful  voice  for  him  to  have  ac- 
cepted you  as  a  pupil."  There  was  a  hint  of  surprise  in  his 
tones. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  hastened  to  assure  him  modestly.  "I  ex- 
pect it  was  more  that  I  had  the  luck  to  catch  him  in  a  good 
mood  that  afternoon." 

"And  his  moods  vary  considerably,  don't  they?"  he  said, 
smiling  as  though  at  some  personal  recollection. 

"Oh,  do  you  know  him  ?"  asked  Diana  eagerly. 

In  an  instant  his  face  became  a  blank  mask;  it  was  as 
though  a  shutter  had  descended,  blotting  out  all  its  vivacious 
interest 

"I  have  met  him,"  he  responded  briefly.  Then,  turning 
the  subject  adroitly,  he  went  on :  "So  now  you  are  on  your 
way  home  for  a  well-earned  holiday  ?  Your  people  must  be 


30  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

looking  forward  to  seeing  you  after  so  long  a  time — you 
have  been  away  a  year,  didn't  you  say?" 

"Yes,  I  spent  the  other  two  vacations  abroad,  in  Italy,  for 
the  sake  of  acquiring  the  language.  Signor  Baroni"- 
laughingly — "was  horror-stricken  at  my  Italian,  so  he  in- 
sisted. But  I  have  no  people — not  really,  you  know,"  she 
continued.  "I  live  with  my  guardian  and  his  daughter. 
Both  my  parents  died  when  I  was  quite  young." 

"You  are  not  very  old  now,"  he  interjected. 

"I'm  eighteen,"  she  answered  seriously. 

"It's  a  great  age,"  he  acknowledged,  with  equal  gravity. 

Just  then  a  waiter  sped  forward  and  with  praiseworthy 
agility  deposited  their  coffee  on  the  table  without  spilling 
a  drop,  despite  the  swaying  of  the  train,  and  Diana's  fellow- 
traveller  produced  his  cigarette-case. 

"Will  you  smoke?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  the  cigarettes  longingly. 

"Baroni's  forbidden  me  to  smoke,"  she  said,  hesitating  a 
little.  "Do  you  think — just  one — would  hurt  my  voice  ?" 

The  short  black  lashes  flew  up,  and  the  light-grey  eyes, 
like  a  couple  of  stars  between  black  clouds,  met  his  in  irre- 
sistible appeal. 

"I'm  sure  it  wouldn't,"  he  replied  promptly.  "After  all, 
this  is  just  an  hour's  playtime  that  we  have  snatched  out 
of  life.  Let's  enjoy  every  minute  of  it — we  may  never  meet 
again." 

Diana  felt  her  heart  contract  in  a  most  unexpected  fashion. 

"Oh,  I  hope  we  shall!"  she  exclaimed,  with  ingenuous 
warmth. 

"It  is  not  likely,"  he  returned  quietly.  He  struck  a 
match  and  held  it  while  she  lit  her  cigarette,  and  for  an  in- 
stant their  fingers  touched.  His  teeth  came  down  hard  on 
his  under-lip.  "No,  we  mustn't  meet  again,"  he  repeated  in 
a  low  voice. 

"Oh,  well,  you  never  know,"  insisted  Diana,  with  cheer- 
ful optimism.  'People  run  up  against  each  other  in  the 


FELLOW-TRAVELLERS  31 

most  extraordinary  fashion.     And  I  expect  we  shall,  too." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  he  said.  "If  I  thought  that  we 
should "  He  broke  off  abruptly,  frowning. 

"Why,  I  don't  believe  you  want  to  meet  me  again!"  ex- 
claimed Diana,  with  a  note  in  her  voice  like  that  of  a  hurt 
child. 

"Oh,  for  that !"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  we 
could  have  what  we  wanted  in  this  world !  Though  I  mustn't 
complain — I  have  had  this  hour.  And  I  wanted  it !"  he 
added,  with  a  sudden  intensity. 

"So  much  that  you  propose  to  make  it  last  you  for  the 
remainder  of  your  life?" — smiling. 

"It  will  have  to,"  he  answered  grimly. 

After  dinner  they  made  their  way  back  from  the  restau- 
rant car  to  their  compartment,  and  noticing  that  she  looked 
rather  white  and  tired,  he  suggested  that  she  should  tuck 
herself  up  on  the  seat  and  go  to  sleep. 

"But  supposing  I  didn't  wake  at  the  right  time?"  she 
objected.  "I  might  be  carried  past  my  station  and  find 
myself  heaven  knows  where  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing! ...  I  am  sleepy,  though." 

"Let  me  be  call-boy,"  he  suggested.  "Where  do  you  want 
to  get  out  ?" 

"At  Craiford  Junction.  That's  the  station  for  Crailing, 
where  I'm  going.  Do  you  know  it  at  all  ?  It's  a  tiny  village 
in  Devonshire ;  my  guardian  is  the  Rector  there." 

"Crailing?"  An  odd  expression  crossed  his  face  and  he 
hesitated  a  moment.  At  last,  apparently  coming  to  a  deci- 
sion of  some  kind,  he  said:  "Then  I  must  wake  you  up 
when  I  go,  as  I'm  getting  out  before  that." 

"Can  I  trust  you  ?"  she  asked  sleepily. 

"Surely." 

She  had  curled  herself  up  on  the  seat  with  her  feet 
stretched  out  in  front  of  her,  one  narrow  foot  resting  lightly 
on  the  instep  of  the  other,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  specu- 


32  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

latively  from  between  the  double  fringe  of  her  short  black 
lashes. 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  can,"  she  acquiesced,  with  a  little  smile. 

He  tucked  his  travelling  rug  deftly  round  her,  and,  pull- 
ing on  his  overcoat,  went  back  to  his  former  corner,  where 
he  picked  up  the  neglected  writing-pad  and  began  scribbling 
in  a  rather  desultory  fashion. 

Very  soon  her  even  breathing  told  him  that  she  slept,  and 
he  laid  aside  the  pad  and  sat  quietly  watching  her.  She 
looked  very  young  and  childish  as  she  lay  there,  with  the 
faint  shadows  of  fatigue  beneath  her  closed  eyes — there  was 
something  appealing  about  her  very  helplessness.  Presently 
the  rug  slipped  a  little,  and  he  saw  her  hand  groping  vaguely 
for  it.  Quietly  he  tiptoed  across  the  compartment  and  drew 
it  more  closely  about  her. 

"Thank  you — so  much,"  she  murmured  drowsily,  and  the 
man  looking  down  at  her  caught  his  breath  sharply  betwixt 
his  teeth,,  Then,  with  an  almost  imperceptible  shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  he  stepped  back  and  resumed  his  seat. 

The  express  sped  on  through  the  night,  the  little  twin 
globes  of  light  high  up  in  the  carriage  ceiling  jumping  and 
flickering  as  it  swung  along  the  metals. 

Down  the  track  it  flew  like  a  living  thing,  a  red  glow 
marking  its  passage  as  it  cleft  the  darkness,  its  freight  of 
human  souls  contentedly  sleeping,  or  smoking,  or  reading, 
as  the  fancy  took  them.  And  half  a  mile  ahead  on  the  per- 
manent way,  Death  stood  watching — watching  and  waiting 
where,  by  some  hideous  accident  of  fate,  a  faulty  coupling- 
rod  had  snapped  asunder  in  the  process  of  shunting,  leaving 
a  solitary  coal-truck  to  slide  slowly  back  into  the  shadows 
of  the  night,  unseen,  the  while  its  fellows  were  safely  drawn 
on  to  a  siding. 


CHAPTER  III 

AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DEATH 

OJfE  moment  the  even  throbbing  of  the  engine  as  the  train 
slipped  along  through  the  silence  of  the  country-side 
— the  next,  and  the  silence  was  split  by  a  shattering  roar 
and  the  shock  of  riven  plates,  the  clash  of  iron  driven  against 
iron,  and  of  solid  woodwork  grinding  and  grating  as  it 
splintered  into  wreckage. 

Diana,  suddenly — horribly — awake^  found  herself  hurled 
from  her  seat  Absolute  darkness  lapped  her  round ;  it  was 
as  though  a  thick  black  curtain  had  descended,  blotting  out 
the  whole  world,  while  from  behind  it,  immeasurably 
hideous  in  that  utter  night,  uprose  an  inferno  of  cries  and 
shrieks — the  clamour  of  panic-stricken  humanity. 

Her  hands,  stretched  stiffly  out  in  front  of  her  to  ward  off 
she  knew  not  what  impending  horror  hidden  by  the  dark, 
came  in  contact  with  the  framework  of  the  window,  and  in 
an  instant  she  was  clinging  to  it,  pressing  up  against  it 
with  her  body,  her  fingers  gripping  and  clutching  at  it  as  a 
rat,  trapped  in  a  well,  claws  madly  at  a  projecting  bit  of 
stonework.  It  was  at  least  something  solid  out  of  that  awful 
void. 

"What's  happened  ?  What's  happened  ?  What's  hap- 
pened?" 

She  was  whispering  the  question  over  and  over  again  in 
a  queer,  whimpering  voice  without  the  remotest  idea  of  what 
she  was  saying.  When  a  stinging  pain  shot  through  her 
arm,  as  a  jagged  point  of  broken  glass  bit  into  the  flesh,  and 
with  a  scream  of  utter,  unreasoning  terror  she  let  go  her 
hold. 

33 


34  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

The  next  moment  she  felt  herself  grasped  and  held  by  a 
pair  of  arms,  and  a  voice  spoke  to  her  out  of  the  darkness. 

**Are  you  hurt  ?  .  .  .  My  God,  are  you  hurt  ?" 

With  a  sob  of  relief  she  realised  that  it  was  the  voice  of 
her  fellow-traveller.  He  was  here,  close  to  her,  something 
alive  and  human  in  the  midst  of  this  nightmare  of  awful, 
unspeakable  fear,  and  she  clung  to  him,  shuddering. 

"Speak,  can't  you?"  His  utterance  sounded  hoarse  and 

distorted.  "You're  hurt ?"  And  she  felt  his  hands 

slide  searchingly  along  her  limbs,  feeling  and  groping. 

"No— no." 

"Thank  God !"  He  spoke  under  his  breath.  Then,  giving 
her  a  shake:  "Come,  pull  yourself  together.  We  must  get 
out  of  this." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  she  heard  the  rattle  of  a 
matchbox,  and  an  instant  later  a  flame  spurted  out  in  the 
gloom  as  he  lit  a  bundle  of  matches  together.  In  the  brief 
illumination  she  could  see  the  floor  of  the  compartment 
steeply  tilted  up  and  at  its  further  end  what  looked  like  a 
huge,  black  cavity.  The  whole  side  of  the  carriage  had  been 
wrenched  away. 

"Come  on !"  exclaimed  the  man,  catching  her  by  the  hand 
and  pulling  her  forward  towards  that  yawning  space.  "We 
must  jump  for  it.  It'll  be  a  big  drop.  I'll  catch  you." 

At  the  edge  of  the  gulf  he  paused.  Below,  with  eyes 
grown  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  she  could  discern  figures 
running  to  and  fro,  and  lanterns  flashing,  while  shouts  and 
cries  rose  piercingly  above  a  continuous  low  undertone  of 
moaning. 

"Stand  here,"  he  directed  her.  "I'll  let  myself  down, 
and  when  I  call  to  you — jump." 

She  caught  at  him  frantically. 

"Don't  go — don't  leave  me." 

He  disengaged  himself  roughly  from  her  clinging  hands. 

"It  only  wants  a  moment's  pluck,"  he  said,  "and  then 
you'll  be  safe." 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DEATH  35 

The  next  minute  he  was  over  the  side,  hanging  by  his 
hands  from  the  edge  of  the  bent  and  twisted  flooring  of  the 
carriage,  and  a  second  afterwards  she  heard  him  drop. 
Peering  out,  she  could  see  him  standing  on  the  ground  be- 
low, his  arms  held  out  towards  her. 

"Jump!"  he  called. 

But  she  shrank  from  the  drop  into  the  darkness. 

"I  can't!"  she  sobbed  helplessly.     "I  can't!" 

He  approached  a  step  nearer,  and  the  light  from  some 
torch  close  at  hand  flashed  onto  his  uplifted  face.  Sht  could 
see  it  clearly,  tense  and  set,  the  blue  eyes  blazing. 

"God  in  heaven!"  he  cried  furiously.  "Do  what  I  tell 
you.  Jump!" 

The  fierce,  imperative  command  startled  her  into  action, 
and  she  jumped  blindly,  recklessly,  out  into  the  night. 
There  was  one  endless  moment  of  uncertainty,  and  then  she 
felt  herself  caught  by  arms  like  steel  and  set  gently  upon  the 
ground. 

"You  little  fool!"  he  said  thickly.  He  was  breathing 
heavily  as  though  he  had  been  running;  she  could  feel  his 
chest  heave  as,  for  an  instant,  he  held  her  pressed  against 
him. 

He  released  her  almost  immediately,  and  taking  her 
by  the  arm,  led  her  to  the  embankment,  where  he  stripped 
off  his  overcoat  and  wrapped  it  about  her.  But  she  was 
hardly  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing,  for  suddenly  every- 
thing seemed  to  be  spinning  round  her.  The  lights  of  the 
torches  bobbed  up  and  down  in  a  confused  blur  of  twinkling 
stars,  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  trampling  of  feet  came 
faintly  to  her  ears  as  from  a  great  way  off,  while  the  grim, 
black  bulk  of  the  piled-up  coaches  of  the  train  seemed  to 
lean  nearer  and  nearer,  until  finally  it  swooped  down  on 
top  of  her  and  she  sank  into  a  sea  of  impenetrable  darkness. 

The  next  thing  she  remembered  was  finding  a  flask  held 
to  her  lips,  while  a  familiar  voice  commanded  her  to  drink. 
She  shook  her  head  feebly. 


86  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Drink  it  at  once,"  the  voice  insisted.     "Do  you  hear?" 

And  because  her  mind  held  some  dim  recollection  of  the 
futility  of  gainsaying  that  peremptory  voice,  she  opened  her 
lips  obediently  and  let  the  strong  spirit  trickle  down  her 
throat. 

"Better  now  ?"  queried  the  voice. 

She  nodded,  and  then,  complete  consciousness  returning, 
she  sat  up. 

"I'm  all  right  now — really,"  she  said. 

The  owner  of  the  voice  regarded  her  critically. 

"Yea,  I  think  you'll  do  now,"  he  returned.  "Stay  where 
you  are.  I'm  going  along  to  see  if  I  can  help,  but  I'll  come 
back  to  you  again." 

The  darkness  swallowed  him  up,  and  Diana  sat  very  still 
on  the  embankment,  vibrantly  conscious  in  every  nerve  of 
her  of  the  man's  cool,  dominating  personality.  Gradually 
her  thoughts  returned  to  the  happenings  of  the  moment,  and 
then  the  full  horror  of  what  had  occurred  came  back  to  her. 
She  began  to  cry  weakly.  But  the  tears  did  her  good,  bring- 
ing with  them  relief  from  the  awful  shock  which  had  strained 
her  nerves  almost  to  breaking-point,  and  with  return  to  a 
more  normal  state  of  mind  came  the  instinctive  wish  to 
help — to  do  something  for  those  who  must  be  suffering  so 
pitiably  in  the  midst  of  that  scarred  heap  of  wreckage  on 
the  line. 

She  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  made  her  way  nearer  to 
the  mass  of  crumpled  coaches  that  reared  up  black  against 
the  shimmer  of  the  starlit  sky.  No  one  took  any  notice  of 
her;  all  who  were  unhurt  were  working  to  save  and  help 
those  who  had  been  less  fortunate,  and  every  now  and  then 
some  broken  wreck  of  humanity  was  carried  past  her,  groan- 
ing horribly,  or  still  more  horribly  silent. 

Suddenly  a  woman  brushed  against  her — a  young  woman 
of  the  working  elagses,  her  plump  face  sagging  and  mottled 
with  terror,  her  eyes  staring,  her  clothes  torn  and  dishevelled. 


AST  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DEATH  37 

"My  chiel,  my  li'l  chiel !"  she  kept  on  muttering.  "Wur 
be'ee?  Wur  be'ee?" 

Reaching  her  through  the  dreadful  strangeness  of  dis- 
aster, the  soft  Devon  dialect  smote  on  Diana's  ears  with  a 
sense  o±  dear  familiarity  that  was  almost  painful.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  the  woman's  arm. 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  asked.    "Have  you  lost  your  child  f ' 

The  woman  looked  at  her  vaguely,  bewildered  by  the  sur- 
rounding horror. 

"Iss.  Us  dunnaw  wur  er's  tu ;  er's  dade,  I  reckon.  Aw, 
my  li'l,  li'l  chiel!''  And  she  rocked  to  and  fro,  clutching 
her  shawl  more  closely  round  her. 

Diana  put  a  few  brief  questions  and  elicited  that  the 
woman  and  her  child  had  both  been  taken  unhurt  out  of  a 
third-class  carriage — of  the  ten  souls  who  had  occupied  the 
compartment  the  only  ones  to  escape  injury. 

"I'll  go  and  look  for  him,"  she  told  her.  "I  expect  he  has 
only  strayed  away  and  lost  sight  of  you  amongst  all  these 
people.  Four  years  old  and  wearing  a  little  red  coat,  did 
you  say  ?  I'll  find  him  for  you ;  you  sit  down  here."  And 
she  pushed  the  poor  distraught  creature  down  on  a  pile  of 
shattered  woodwork.  "Don't  be  frightened,"  she  added  re- 
assuringly. "I  feel  certain  he's  quite  safe." 

She  disappeared  into  the  throng,  and  after  searching  for 
a  while  came  face  to  face  with  her  fellow  traveller,  carrying 
a  chubby,  red-coated  little  boy  in  his  arms.  He  stopped 
abruptly. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing?"  he  demanded  angrily. 
"You've  no  business  here.  Go  back — you'll  only  see  some 
ghastly  sights  if  you  come,  and  you  can't  help.  Why  didn't 
you  stay  where  I  told  you  to  ?" 

But  Diana  paid  no  heed. 

"I  want  that  child,"  she  said  eagerly,  holding  out  her 
arms.  "The  mother's  nearly  out  of  her  mind — she  thinks 
he's  killed,  and  I  told  her  I'd  go  and  look  for  him." 


88  THE  SPLEOT3ID  FOLLY 

"Is  this  the  child?  .  .  .  All  right,  then,  I'll  carry  him 
along  for  you.  Where  did  you  leave  his  mother  ?" 

Diana  led  the  way  to  where  the  woman  was  sitting,  still 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  dumb  misery.  At  the  sight  of 
the  child  she  leapt  up  and  clutched  him  in  her  arms,  half 
crazy  with  joy  and  gratitude,  and  a  few  sympathetic  tears 
stole  down  Diana's  cheeks  as  she  and  her  fellow-helper 
moved  away,  leaving  the  mother  and  child  together. 

The  man  beside  her  drew  her  arm  brusquely  within  his. 

"You're  not  going  near  that — that  hell  again.  Do  you 
hear  ?"  he  said  harshly. 

His  face  looked  white  and  drawn;  it  was  smeared  with 
dirt,  and  his  clothes  were  torn  and  dishevelled.  Here  and 
there  his  coat  was  stained  with  dark,  wet  patches.  Diana 
shuddered  a  little,  guessing  what  those  patches  were. 

"You've  been  helping !"  she  burst  out  passionately.  "Did 
you  want  me  to  sit  still  and  do  nothing  while — while  that 
is  going  on  just  below?"  And  she  pointed  to  where  the 
injured  were  being  borne  along  on  roughly  improvised 
stretchers.  A  sob  climbed  to  her  throat  and  her  voice  shook 
as  she  continued:  "I  was  safe,  you  see,  thanks  to  you. 
And — and  I  felt  I  must  go  and  help  a  little,  if  I  could." 

"Yes — I  suppose  you  would  feel  that,"  he  acknowledged, 
a  sort  of  grudging  approval  in  his  tones.  "But  there's  noth- 
ing more  one  can  do  now.  An  emergency  train  is  coming 
soon  and  then  we  shall  get  away — those  that  are  left  of  us. 
But  what's  this?" — he  felt  her  sleeve — "Your  arm  is  all 
wet."  He  pushed  up  the  loose  coat-sleeve  and  swung  the 
light  of  his  lantern  upon  the  thin  silk  of  her  blouse  be- 
neath it.  It  was  caked  with  blood,  while  a  trickle  of  red 
still  oozed  slowly  from  under  the  wristband  and  ran  down 
over  her  hand. 

"You're  hurt!    Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"It's  nothing,"  she  answered.  "I  cut  it  against  the  glass 
of  the  carriage  window.  It  doesn't  hurt  much." 

"Let  me  look  at  it.    Here,  take  the  lantern." 


AN  ENCOUNTER  WITH  DEATH  39 

Diana  obeyed,  laughing  a  little  nervously,  and  he  turned 
back  her  sleeve,  exposing  a  nasty  red  gash  on  the  slender 
arm.  It  was  only  a  surface  wound  however,  and  hastily 
procuring  some  water  he  bathed  it  and  tied  it  up  with  his 
handkerchief. 

"There,  I  think  that'll  be  all  right  now,"  he  said,  pulling 
down  her  sleeve  once  more  and  fastening  the  wristband  with 
deft  fingers.  "The  emergency  train  will  be  here  directly, 
so  I'm  going  back  to  our  compartment  to  pick  up  your  be- 
longings. I  can  climb  in,  I  fancy.  What  did  you  leave 
behind?" 

Diana  laughed. 

"What  a  practical  man  you  are!  Fancy  thinking  of  such 
things  as  a  forgotten  coat  and  a  dressing-bag  when  we've 
just  escaped  with  our  lives!" 

"Well,  you  may  as  well  have  them,"  he  returned  gruffly. 
"Wait  here."  And  he  disappeared  into  the  darkness,  re- 
turning presently  with  the  various  odds  and  ends  which  she 
had  left  in  the  carriage. 

Soon  afterwards  the  emergency  train  came  up,  and  those 
who  could  took  their  places,  whilst  the  injured  were  lifted 
by  kindly,  careful  hands  into  the  ambulance  compartment. 
'  The  train  drew  slowly  away  from  the  scene  of  the  accident, 
gradually  gathering  speed,  and  Diana,  worn  out  with  strain 
and  excitement,  dozed  fitfully  to  the  rhythmic  rumbling  of 
the  wheels. 

She  woke  with  a  start  to  find  that  the  train  was  slowing 
down  and  her  companion  gathering  his  belongings  together 
preparatory  to  departure.  She  sprang  up  and  slipping  off 
the  overcoat  she  was  still  wearing,  handed  it  back  to  him. 

He  seemed  reluctant  to  take  it  from  her. 

"Shall  you  be  warm  enough  ?"  he  asked  doubtfully. 

"Oh,  yes.  It's  only  half-an-hour's  run  from  here  to  Crai- 
ford  Junction,  and  there  they'll  meet  me  with  plenty  of 
wraps."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  on  shyly:  "I 
can't  thank  you  properly  for  all  you've  done." 


40  THE  SPLENIC  FOLLY 

"Don't,"  lie  said  curtly.  "It  was  little  enough.  But  I'm 
glad  I  was  there." 

The  train  came  to  a  standstill,  and  she  held  put  her  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  she  said,  very  low. 

He  wrung  her  hand,  and,  releasing  it  abruptly,  lifted  his 
hat  and  disappeared  amid  the  throng  of  people  on  the  plat- 
form. And  it  was  not  until  the  train  had  steamed  out  of 
the  station  again  that  she  remembered  that  she  did  not  even 
know  his  name. 

Very  slowly  she  unknotted  the  handkerchief  from  about 
her  arm,  and  laying  the  blood-stained  square  of  linen  on  her 
knee,  proceeded  to  examine  each  corner  carefully.  In  one 
of  them  she  found  the  initials  M.  E.,  very  finely  worked. 


CHAPTER  IV 

CBAILING    EECTOEY 

early  morning  mist  still  lingered  in  the  valleys 
A  and  clung  about  the  river  banks  as  the  Reverend  Alan 
Stair,  returning  from  his  matutinal  dip  in  the  sea,  swung 
up  the  lane  and  pushed  open  the  door  giving  access  from  it 
to  the  Rectory  grounds.  The  little  wooden  door,  painted 
^reen  and  overhung  with  ivy,  was  never  bolted.  In  the 
primitive  Devon  village  of  Crailing  such  a  precaution  would 
have  been  deemed  entirely  superfluous ;  indeed,  the  locking  of 
the  door  would  probably  have  been  regarded  by  the  villagers 
as  equivalent  to  a  reflection  on  their  honesty,  and  should  the 
passage  of  time  ultimately  bring  to  the  ancient  rectory  a 
fresh  parson,  obsessed  by  conventional  opinion  concerning 
the  uses  of  bolts  and  bars,  it  is  probable  that  the  inhabitants 
of  Crailing  will  manifest  their  disapproval  in  the  simple  and 
direct  fashion  of  the  Devon  rustic — by  placidly  boycotting 
the  church  of  their  fathers  and  betaking  themselves  to  the 
chapel  round  the  corner.  The  little  green  door,  innocent 
of  lock  and  key,  stood  as  a  symbol  of  the  close  ties  that 
bound  the  rector  and  his  flock  together,  and  woe  betide  the 
iconoclast  who  should  venture  to  tamper  with  it. 

The  Rectory  itself  was  a  picturesque  old  house  with  lat- 
ticed windows  and  thatched  roof;  the  climbing  roses,  which 
in  summer  clothed  it  in  a  garment  of  crimson  and  pink  and 
white,  now  shrouded  its  walls  with  a  network  of  brown 
stems  and  twigs  tipped  with  emerald  buds.  Beneath  the 
warmth  of  the  morning  sun  the  damp  was  steaming  from 
the  weather-stained  thatch  in  a  cloud  of  pearly  mist,  while 
the  starlings,  nesting  under  the  overhanging  eaves,  broke 

41 


42  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

into  a  harsh  twittering  of  alarm  at  the  sound  of  the  Rector's 
footsteps. 

Alan  Stair  was  a  big,  loose-limbed  son  of  Anak,  with  little 
of  the  conventional  cleric  in  his  appearance  as  he  came 
striding  across  the  dewy  lawn,  clad  in  a  disreputable  old  suit 
of  grey  tweeds  and  with  his  bathing-towel  slung  around  his 
shoulders.  His  hands  were  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets, 
and  since  he  had  characteristically  omitted  to  provide  him- 
self with  a  hat,  his  abundant  brown  hair  was  rumpled  and 
tossed  by  the  wind,  giving  him  an  absurdly  boyish  air. 

Arrived  at  the  flagged  path  which  ran  the  whole  length  of 
the  house  he  sent  up  a  Jovian  shout,  loud  enough  to  arouse 
the  most  confirmed  of  sluggards  from  his  slumbers,  and  one 
of  the  upper  lattice  windows  flew  open  in  response. 

"That  you,  Dad  ?"  called  a  fresh  young  voice. 

"Sounds  like  it,  doesn't  it?"  he  laughed  back.  "Come 
down  and  give  me  my  breakfast.  There's  a  beautifully  as- 
sorted smell  of  coffee  and  fried  bacon  wafting  out  from  the 
dining  room,  and  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer." 
.  An  unfeeling  giggle  from  above  was  the  only  answer, 
and  the  Reverend  Alan  made  his  way  into  the  house,  pausing 
to  sling  his  bath-towel  picturesquely  over  one  of  the  pegs 
of  the  hat-stand  as  he  passed  through  the  hall. 

He  was  incurably  disorderly,  and  only  the  strenuous  ef- 
forts of  his  daughter  Joan  kept  the  habit  within  bounds. 
Since  the  death  of  her  mother,  nearly  ten  years  ago,  she 
had  striven  to  fill  her  place  and  to  be  to  this  lovable,  grown- 
up boy  who  was  her  father  all  that  his  adored  young  wife 
had  been.  And  so  far  as  material  matters  were  concerned, 
she  had  succeeded.  She  it  was  who  usually  found  the  MS. 
of  his  sermon  when,  just  as  the  bells  were  calling  to  service, 
he  would  come  leaping  up  the  stairs,  three  at  a  time,  to 
inform  her  tragically  that  it  was  lost;  she  who  saw  to  it 
that  his  meals  were  not  forgotten  in  the  exigencies  of  his 
parish  work,  and  who  supervised  his  outward  man  to  the 
last  detail — otherwise,  in  one  of  his  frequent  fits  of  absent- 


CRAILING  RECTOKY  43 

mindedness,  he  would  have  been  quit©  capable  of  presenting 
himself  at  church  in  the  identical  grey  tweeds  he  was  now 
wearing. 

Yet  notwithstanding  the  irrepressible  note  of  youth  about 
him,  which  called  forth  a  species  of  "mothering"  from  every 
woman  of  his  acquaintance,  Alan  Stair  was  a  man  to  whom 
people  instinctively  turned  for  counsel.  A  child  in  the 
material  things  of  this  world,  he  was  a  giant  in  spiritual 
development — broad-minded  and  tolerant,  his  religion  spiced 
with  a  sense  of  humour  and  deepened  by  a  sympathetic  un- 
derstanding of  frail  human  nature.  And  it  was  to  him  that 
Ralph  Quentin,  when  on  his  death-bed,  had  confided  the 
care  of  his  motherless  little  daughter,  Diana,  appointing 
him  her  sole  guardian  and  trustee. 

The  two  men  had  been  friends  from  boyhood,  and  perhaps 
no  one  had  better  understood  than  Ralph,  who  had  earlier 
suffered  a  similar  loss,  the  terrible  blank  which  the  death  of 
his  wife  had  occasioned  in  Stair's  life.  The  fellowship  of 
suffering  had  drawn  the  two  men  together  in  a  way  that 
nothing  else  could  have  done,  so  that  when  Quentin  made 
known  his  final  wishes  concerning  his  daughter,  Alan  Stair 
had  gladly  accepted  the  charge  laid  upon  him,  and  Diana, 
then  a  child  of  ten,  had  made  her  permanent  home  at  Grail- 
ing  Rectory,  speedily  coming  to  look  upon  her  guardian  as 
a  beloved  elder  brother,  and  upon  his  daughter,  who  was  but 
two  years  her  senior,  as  her  greatest  friend. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  Stairs  themselves,  the  ar- 
rangement was  not  without  its  material  advantages.  Diana 
had  inherited  three  hundred  a  year  of  her  own,  and  the  sum 
she  contributed  to  "cover  the  cost  of  her  upkeep,"  as  she 
laughingly  termed  it  when  she  was  old  enough  to  understand 
financial  matters,  was  a  very  welcome  addition  to  the  slender 
resources  provided  by  the  value  of  the  living. 

But  even  had  the  circumstances  been  quite  other  than  they 
were,  so  that  the  fulfilment  of  Ralph  Quentin's  last  behest, 
instead  of  being  an  assistance  to  the  household  exchequer, 


44  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

had  proved  to  be  a  drain  upon  it,  Alan  Stair  would  have 
acted  in  precisely  the  same  way — for  the  simple  reason  that 
there  was  never  any  limit  to  his  large  conception  of  the 
meaning  of  the  word  friendship  and  of  its  liabilities. 

Diana  had  speedily  carved  for  herself  a  niche  of  her  own 
in  the  Rectory  household,  so  that  when  the  exigencies  of 
her  musical  training,  as  viewed  through  Carlo  Baroni's  eyes, 
had  necessitated  her  departure  from  Crailing  for  a  whole 
year,  Stair  and  his  daughter  had  felt  her  absence  keenly, 
and  they  welcomed  her  back  with  open  arms. 

The  account  of  the  railway  accident  which  had  attended 
her  homeward  journey  had  filled  them  with  anxiety  lest 
she  should  suffer  from  the  effects  of  shock,  and  they  had 
insisted  that  she  should  breakfast  in  bed  this  first  morning 
of  her  arrival,  inclining  to  treat  her  rather  as  though  she 
were  a  semi-invalid. 

"Have  you  been  to  see  Diana  ?"  asked  Stair  anxiously,  as 
his  daughter  joined  him  in  the  dining-room. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  need.  Diana's  been  in  to  see  me !  There's  no  break- 
fast in  bed  about  her ;  she'll  be  down  directly.  Even  her  arm 
doesn't  pain  her  much." 

Stair  laughed. 

"What  a  girl  it  is!"  he  exclaimed.  "One  would  have  ex- 
pected her  to  feel  a  bit  shaken  up  after  her  experience  yes- 
terday." 

"I  fancy  something  else  must  have  happened  beside  the 
railway  accident,"  observed  Joan  wisely.  "Something  inter- 
esting enough  to  have  outweighed  the  shock  of  the  smash-up. 
She's  in  quite  absurdly  good  spirits  for  some  unknown  rea- 
son." 

The  Rector  chuckled. 

"Perhaps  a  gallant  rescuer  was  added  to  the  experience, 
eh?"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  so,"  replied  his  daughter,  faintly  smiling  as 
she  proceeded  to  pour  out  the  coffee. 


CRAILING  RECTORY  45 

Joan  Stair  was  a  typical  English  country  girl,  strictly 
tailor-made  in  her  appearance,  with  a  predisposition  towards 
stiff  linen  collars  and  neat  ties.  In  figure  she  was  slight  al- 
most to  boyishness  and  she  had  no  pretensions  whatever  to 
good  looks,  but  there  was  nevertheless  something  frank  and 
wholesome  and  sweet  about  her — something  of  the  charm  of  a 
nice  boy — that  counterbalanced  her  undeniable  plainness.  As 
she  had  once  told  Diana:  "I'm  not  beautiful,  so  I'm  obliged 
to  be  good.  You're  not  compelled  by  the  same  necessity, 
and  I  may  yet  see  you  sliding  down  the  primrose  path, 
whereas  I  shall  inevitably  end  my  days  in  the  odour  of 
sanctity — probably  a  parish  worker  to  some  celibate  vicar !" 

The  Hector  and  Joan  were  half-way  through  their  break- 
fast when  a  light  step  sounded  in  the  hall  outside,  and  a 
minute  later  the  door  flew  open  to  admit  Diana. 

"Good  morning,  dear  people,"  she  exclaimed  gaily.  "Am 
I  late?  It  looks  like  it  from  the  devastated  appearance  of 
the  bacon  dish.  Fobs,  you've  eaten  all  the  breakfast!"  And 
she  dropped  a  light  kiss  on  the  top  of  the  Rector's  head. 
"Ugh !  Your  hair's  all  wet  with  sea-water.  Why  don't  you 
dry  yourself  when  you  take  a  bath,  Fobs  dear  ?  I'll  come 
with  you  to-morrow — not  to  dry  you,  I  mean,  but  just  to 
batha" 

Stair  surveyed  her  with  a  twinkle  as  he  retrieved  her 
plate  of  kidneys  and  bacon  from  the  hearth  whore  it  had 
been  set  down  to  keep  hot. 

"Diana,  I  regret  to  observe  that  your  conversation  lacks 
the  flavour  of  respectability  demanded  by  your  present  cir- 
cumstances," he  remarked.  "I  fear  you'll  never  be  an  orna- 
ment to  any  clerical  household." 

"No.  Pas  mon  metier.  Respectability  isn't  in  the  least 
a  sine  qua  non  for  a  prima  donna — far  from  it !" 

Stair  chuckled. 

"To  hear  you  talk,  no  one  would  imagine  that  in  reality 
you  were  the  most  conventional  of  prudes,"  he  flung  at  her. 

"Oh,  but  I'm  growing  out  of  it,"  she  returned  hopefully. 


46  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Yesterday,  for  instance,  I  palled  up  with  a  perfectly 
strange  young  man.  We  conversed  together  as  though  we 
had  known  each  other  all  our  lives,  shared  the  same  table 
for  dinner " 

"You  didn't  ?"  broke  in  Joan,  a  trifle  shocked. 

Diana  nodded  serenely. 

"Indeed  I  did.  And  what  was  the  reward  of  my  mis- 
deeds? Why,  there  he  was  at  hand  to  save  me  when  the 
smash  came!" 

"Who  was  he?"  asked  Joan  curiously.  "Any  one  from 
this  part  of  the  world?" 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea,"  replied  Diana.  "I  actually 
never  inquired  to  whom  I  was  indebted  for  my  life  and  the 
various  other  trifles  which  he  rescued  for  me  from  the 
wreck  of  our  compartment.  The  only  clue  I  have  is  the 
handkerchief  he  bound  round  my  arm.  It's  very  bluggy 
and  it's  marked  M.  E." 

"M.  E.,"  repeated  the  Eector.  "Well,  there  must  be 
plenty  of  M.  E.'s  in  the  world.  Did  he  get  out  at  Craif  ord  ?" 

"He  didn't,"  said  Diana.  "No;  at  present  he  is  'wropt 
in  mist'ry,'  but  I  feel  sure  we  shall  run  up  against  each 
other  again.  I  told  him  so." 

"Did  you,  indeed  ?"  Stair  laughed.  "And  was  he  pleased 
at  the  prospect  ?" 

"Well,  frankly,  Fobs,  I  can't  say  he  seemed  enraptured. 
On  the  contrary,  he  appeared  to  regard  it  in  the  light  of 
a  highly  improbable  and  quite  undesirable  contingency." 

"He  must  be  lacking  in  appreciation,"  murmured  Stair 
mockingly,  pinching  her  cheek  as  he  passed  her  on  his  way 
to  select  a  pipe  from  the  array  that  adorned  the  chimney- 
piece. 

"Are  you  going  'parishing*  this  morning?"  inquired 
Diana,  as  she  watched  him  fill  and  light  his  pipe. 

"Yes,  I  promised  to  visit  Susan  Gurney — she's  laid  up 
with  rheumatism,  poor  old  soul." 


CRAILING  RECTORY  47 

"Then  I'll  drive  you,  shall  I?  I  suppose  you've  still  got 
Tommy  and  the  ralli-cart?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Stair  gravely.  "Notwithstanding  dimin- 
ishing tithes  and  increasing  taxes,  Tommy  is  still  left  to  us. 
Apparently  he  thrives  on  a  penurious  diet,  for  he  is  fatter 
than  ever." 

Accordingly,  half  an  hour  later,  the  two  set  out  behind 
the  fat  pony  on  a  round  of  parochial  visits.  Underneath 
the  seat  of  the  trap  reposed  the  numerous  little  packages  of 
tea  and  tobacco  with  which  the  Rector,  whose  hand  was 
always  in  his  pocket,  rarely  omitted  to  season  his  visits  to 
the  sick  among  his  parishioners. 

"And  why  not?"  he  would  say,  when  charged  with  pam- 
pering them  by  some  starchy  member  of  his  congregation 
who  considered  that  parochial  visitation  should  be  embel- 
lished solely  by  the  delivery  of  appropriate  tracts.  "And 
why  not  pamper  them  a  bit,  poor  souls?  A  pipe  of  baccy 
goes  a  long  way  towards  taking  your  thoughts  off  a  bad  leg 
— as  I  found  out  for  myself  when  I  was  laid  up  with  an 
attack  of  the  gout  my  maternal  grandfather  bequeathed  me." 

Whilst  the  Rector  paid  his  visits,  Diana  waited  outside 
the  various  cottages,  driving  the  pony-trap  slowly  up  and 
down  the  road,  and  stopping  every  now  and  again  to  ex- 
change a  few  words  with  one  or  another  of  the  village  folk 
as  they  passed. 

She  was  frankly  delighted  to  be  home  again,  and  was 
experiencing  that  peculiar  charm  of  the  Devonshire  village 
which  lies  in  the  fact  that  you  may  go  away  from  it  for 
several  years  and  return  to  find  it  almost  unchanged.  In 
the  wilds  of  Devon  affairs  move  leisurely,  and  such  changes 
as  do  occur  creep  in  so  gradually  as  to  be  almost  impercep- 
tible. No  brand-new  houses  start  into  existence  with  light- 
ning-like rapidity,  for  the  all-sufficient  reason  that  in  such 
sparsely  populated  districts  the  enterprising  builder  would 
stand  an  excellent  chance  of  having  his  attractive  villa 
residences  left  empty  on  his  hands.  No;  new  houses  are 


48  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

built  to  order,  if  at  all.  In  the  same  way,  it  is  rare  to  find 
a  fresh  shop  spring  into  being  in  a  small  village,  and  should 
it  happen,  in  all  probability  a  year  or  two  will  see  the  shut- 
ters up  and  the  disgruntled  proprietor  departing  in  search 
of  pastures  new.  For  the  villagers  who  have  always  dealt 
with  the  local  butcher,  baker,  and  grocer,  and  whose  fathers 
have  probably  dealt  with  their  fathers  before  them,  are  not 
easily  to  be  cajoled  into  transferring  their  custom — and  cer- 
tainly not  to  the  establishment  of  any  one  who  has  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  born  outside  the  confines  of  the  county,  and 
is  therefore  to  be  briefly  summed  up  in  the  one  damning 
word  "vurriner."  * 

So  that  Diana,  returning  to  Crailing  for  a  brief  holiday 
after  a  year's  absence,  found  the  tiny  fishing  village  quite 
unchanged,  and  this  fact  imparted  an  air  almost  of  unreality 
to  the  twelve  busy,  eventful  months  which  had  intervened. 
She  felt  as  if  she  had  never  been  away,  as  though  the  Diana 
Quentin  who  had  been  living  in  London  and  studying  sing- 
ing under  the  greatest  master  of  the  day  were  some  one  quite 
apart  from  the  girl  who  had  passed  so  many  quiet>  happy 
years  at  Crailing  Rectory. 

The  new  and  unaccustomed  student's  life,  the  two  golden 
visits  which  she  had  paid  to  Italy,  the  introduction  into  a 
milieu  of  clever,  gifted  people  all  struggling  to  make 'the 
most  of  their  talents,  had  been  such  an  immense  change  from 
the  placid,  humdrum  existence  which  had  preceded  it,  that 
it  still  held  for  her  an  almost  dreamlike  charm  of  novelty, 
and  this  was  intensified  at  the  present  moment  by  her  return 
to  Crailing  to  find  everything  going  on  just  in  the  same 
old  way,  precisely  as  though  there  had  been  no  break  at  all. 

As  though  to  convince  herself  that  the  student  life  in 
London  was  a  substantial  reality,  and  not  a  mere  figment 
of  the  imagination,  she  hummed  a  few  bars  of  a  song,  and 
as  she  listened  to  the  deep,  rich  notes  of  her  voice,  poised 
with  that  sureness  which  only  comes  of  first-class  training, 
*  AngUce;  foreigner.  , 


CRAILING  RECTORY  49 

she  smiled  a  little,  reflecting  that  if  nothing  else  had  changed, 
here  at  least  was  a  palpable  outcome  of  that  dreamlike  year. 

"Bravo!"  The  Rector's  cheery  tones  broke  in  upon  her 
thoughts  as  he  came  out  from  a  neighbouring  gateway  and 
swung  himself  up  into  the  trap  beside  her.  "Di,  I've  got 
to  hear  that  voice  before  long.  What  does  Signor  Baroni 
say  about  it  ?" 

"Oh,  I  think  he's  quite  pleased,"  she  answered,  whipping 
up  the  fat  pony,  who  responded  reluctantly.  "But  he's  a 
fearful  martinet  He  nearly  frightens  me  to  death  when  he 
gets  into  one  of  his  royal  Italian  rages — though  he's  al- 
ways particularly  sweet  afterwards!  Pobs,  I  wonder  who 
my  man  in  the  train  was  ?"  she  added  inconsequently. 

The  Rector  looked  at  her  narrowly.  He  had  wondered 
more  than  a  little  why  the  shock  of  the  railway  accident  had 
apparently  affected  her  so  slightly,  and  although  he  had 
joked  with  Joan  about  some  possible  "gallant  rescuer"  who 
might  have  diverted  her  thoughts  he  had  really  attributed 
it  partly  to  the  youthful  resiliency  of  Diana's  nature,  and 
partly  to  the  fact  that  when  one  has  narrowly  escaped  a 
serious  injury,  or  death  itself,  the  sense  of  relief  ie  so 
intense  as  frequently  to  overpower  for  the  moment  every 
other  feeling. 

But  now  he  was  thrown  back  on  the  gallant  rescuer  theory ; 
obviously  the  man,  whoever  he  was,  had  impressed  himself 
rather  forcibly  on  Diana's  mind,  and  the  Rector  acknowl- 
edged that  this  was  almost  inevitable  from  the  circumstances 
in  which  they  had  been  thrown  together. 

"You  know,"  continued  the  girl,  "I'm  certain  I've  seen 
him  before — the  day  I  first  went  to  Baroni  to  have  my  voice 
tested.  It  was  in  Grellingham  Place,  and  all  my  songs 
blew  away  up  the  street,  and  I'm  positive  M.  E.  was  the 
man  who  rescued  them  for  me." 

"Rescuing  seems  to  be  his  hobby,"  commented  the  Rector 
dryly.  "Did  you  remind  him  that  you  had  met  before?" 

"Yes,  and  he  wouldn't  recollect  it." 


50  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Wouldn't?' 

"No,  wouldn't.  I  have  a  distinct  feeting  that  he  did 
remember  all  about  it,  and  did  recognise  me  again,  but  he 
wouldn't  acknowledge  it  and  politely  assured  me  I  must  be 
mistaken." 

The  Rector  smiled. 

"Perhaps  he  has  a  prejudice  against  making  the  promis- 
cuous acquaintance  of  beautiful  young  women  in  trains." 

Diana  sniffed. 

"Oh,  well,  if  he  didn't  think  I  was  good  enough  to 

know "  She  paused.  "He  had  rather  a  superior  way 

with  him,  a  sort  of  independent,  lordly  manner,  as  though 
no  one  had  a  right  to  question  anything  he  chose  to  do.  And 
he  was  in  a  first-class  reserved  compartment  too." 

"Oh,  was  he?  And  did  you  force  your  way  into  his  re- 
served compartment,  may  I  ask  ?" 

Diana  giggled. 

"I  didn't  force  my  way  into  it ;  I  was  pitchforked  in  by 
a  porter.  The  train  was  packed,  and  I  was  late.  Of  course 
I  offered  to  go  and  find  another  seat,  but  there  wasn't  one 
anywhere." 

"So  the  young  man  yielded  to  force  majeure  and  allowed 
you  to  travel  with  him  ?"  said  the  Rector,  adding  seriously : 
"I'm  very  thankful  he  did.  To  think  of  you — alone — in 
that  awful  smash!  .  .  .  This  morning's  paper  says  there 
were  forty  people  killed." 

Diana  gave  a  little  nervous  shiver,  and  then  quite  suddenly 
began  to  cry. 

Stair  quietly  took  the  reins  from  her  hand,  and  patted  her 
shoulder,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  check  her  tears.  He  had 
felt  worried  all  morning  by  her  curious  detachment  con- 
cerning the  accident;  it  was  unnatural,  and  he  feared  that 
later  on  the  shock  which  she  must  have  received  might  re- 
veal itself  in  some  abnormal  nervousness  regarding  railway 
travelling.  These  tears  would  bring  relief,  and  he  welcomed 
them,  allowing  her  to  cry,  comfortably  leaning  against  his 


CRAILING  RECTORY  51 

shoulder,  as  the  pony  meandered  up  the  hilly  lane  which  led 
to  the  Rectory. 

At  the  gates  they  both  descended  from  the  trap,  and 
Stair  was  preparing  to  lead  the  pony  into  the  stable-yard 
when  Diana  suddenly  flung  her  arms  round  him,  kissing 
him  impulsively. 

"Oh,  Fobs,  dear,"  she  said  half -laughing,  half-crying. 
"You're  such  a  darling — you  always  understand  everything. 
I  feel  heaps  better  now,  thank  you." 


CHAPTEK  V 

/ 

THE  SECOTO)  MEETING 

DIANA  threw  back  the  bedclothes  and  thrust  an  ex- 
tremely pretty  but  reluctant  foot  over  the  edge  of  the 
bed.  She  did  not  experience  in  the  least  that  sensation  of 
exhilaration  with  which  the  idea  of  getting  up  invariably 
seems  to  inspire  the  heroine  of  a  novel,  prompting  her  to 
spring  lightly  from  her  couch  and  trip  across  to  the  window 
to  see  what  sort  of  weather  the  author  has  provided.  On 
the  contrary,  she  was  sorely  tempted  to  snuggle  down  again 
amongst  the  pillows,  but  the  knowledge  that  it  wanted  only 
half  an  hour  to  breakfast-time  exercised  a  deterrent  influence 
and  she  made  her  way  with  all  haste  to  the  bath-room,  some- 
what shamefully  pleased  to  reflect  that,  being  Easter  Sun- 
day, Fobs  would  be  officiating  at  the  early  service,  so  that 
she  would  escape  the  long  trudge  down  to  the  sea  with  him 
for  their  usual  morning  swim. 

By  the  time  she  had  bathed  and  dressed,  however,  she 
felt  better  able  to  face  the  day  with  a  cheerful  spirit,  and 
the  sun,  streaming  in  through  the  diamond  panes  of  her 
window,  added  a  last  vivifying  touch  and  finally  sent  her 
downstairs  on  the  best  of  terms  with  herself  and  the  world 
at  large. 

There  was  no  one  about,  as  Joan  had  accompanied  her 
father  to  church,  so  Diana  sauntered  out  on  to  the  flagged 
path  and  paced  idly  up  and  down,  waiting  for  their  return. 
The  square,  grey  tower  of  the  church,  hardly  more  than  a 
stone's  throw  distant  from  the  Rectory,  was  visible  through  a 
gap  in  the  trees  where  a  short  cut,  known  as  the  "church  path" 
wound  its  way  through  the  copse  that  hedged  the  garden.  It 

52 


THE  SECOND  MEETING  53 

was  an  ancient  little  church,  boasting  a  very  beautiful  thin- 
teenth  century  window,  which,  in  a  Philistine  past,  had  been 
built  up  and  rough-cast  outside,  and  had  only  been  discovered 
in  the  course  of  some  repairs  that  were  being  made  to  one 
of  the  walls.  The  inhabitants  of  Crailing  were  very  proud 
of  that  thirteenth  century  window  when  it  was  disinterred; 
they  had  a  proprietary  feeling  about  it — since,  after  all,  it 
had  really  belonged  to  them  for  a  little  matter  of  seven  cen- 
turies or  so,  although  they  had  been  unaware  of  the  fa<jfc. 

Below  the  slope  of  the  Rectory  grounds  the  thatched  roofs 
of  the  village  bobbed  into  view,  some  gleaming  golden  in  all 
the  pride  of  recent  thatching,  others  with  their  crown  of 
straw  mellowed  by  sun  and  rain  to  a  deeper  colour  and 
patched  with  clumps  of  moss,  vividly  green  as  an  emerald. 

The  village  itself  straggled  down  to  the  edge  of  the  sea 
in  untidy  fashion,  its  cob-walled  cottages  in  some  places 
huddling  together  as  though  for  company,  in  others  standing 
far  apart,  with  spaces  of  waste  land  between  them  where 
you  might  often  see  the  women  sitting  mending  the  fishing 
nets  and  gossiping  together  as  they  worked. 

Diana's  eyes  wandered  affectionately  over  the  picturesque 
little  houses;  she  loved  every  quaint,  thatched  roof  among 
them,  but  more  than  all  she  loved  the  glimpse  of  the  sea 
that  lay  beyond  them,  pierced  by  the  bold  headland  of  red 
sandstone,  Culver  Point,  which  thrust  itself  into  the  blue 
of  the  water  like  an  arm  stretched  out  to  shelter  the  little 
village  nestling  in  its  curve  from  the  storms  of  the  Atlantic. 

Presently  she  heard  the  distant  click  of  a  gate,  and  very 
soon  the  Rector  and  Joan  appeared,  Stair  with  the  dreaming, 
far-away  expression  in  his  eyes  of  one  who  has  been  com- 
muning with  the  saints. 

Diana  went  to  meet  them  and  slipped  her  arm  confidingly 
through  his, 

"Come  back  to  earth,  Pobs,  dear,"  she  coaxed  gaily.  <fYou 
look  like  Moses  might  have  done  when  he  descended  from 
the  Mount" 


54  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

The  glory  faded  slowly  out  of  his  eyes. 

"Come  back  to  heaven,  Di,"  he  retorted  a  little  sadly. 
"That's  where  you  came  from,  you  know." 

Diana  shook  her  head. 

"You  did,  I  verily  believe,"  she  declared  affectionately. 
"But  there's  only  a  very  small  slice  of  heaven  in  my  compo- 
sition, I'm  afraid." 

Stair  looked  down  at  her  thoughtfully,  at  the  clean  line 
of  the  cheek  curving  into  the  pointed,  determined  little  chin, 
at  the  sensitive,  eager  mouth,  unconsciously  sensuous  in  the 
lovely  curve  of  its  short  upper-lip,  at  the  ardent,  glowing 
eyea — the  whole  face  vital  with  the  passionate  demand  of 
youth  for  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 

"We've  all  got  our  share  of  heaven,  my  dear,"  he  said  at 
last,  smiling  a  little.  "But  I'm  thinking  yours  may  need 
some  hard  chiselling  of  fate  to  bring  it  into  prominence." 

Diana  wriggled  her  shoulders. 

"It  doesn't  sound  nice,  Fobs.  I  don't  in  the  least  want 
to  be  chiselled  into  shape;  it  reminds  one  too  much  of  the 
dentist." 

"The  gentleman  who  chisels  out  decay?  You're  exactly 
carrying  out  my  metaphor  to  its  bitter  end,"  returned  Stair 
composedly. 

"Oh,  Joan,  do  stop  him,"  exclaimed  Diana  appealingly. 
"I'm  going  to  church  this  morning,  and  if  he  lectures  me 
like  this  I  shall  have  no  appetite  left  for  spiritual  things." 

"I  didn't  know  you  ever  had — much,"  replied  Joan, 
laughing. 

"Well,  anyway,  I've  a  thoroughly  healthy  appetite  for 
my  breakfast,"  said  Diana,  as  they  went  into  the  dining- 
room.  "I'm  feeling  particularly  cheerful  just  this  moment. 
I  have  a  presentiment  that  something  very  delightful  is  going 
to  happen  to  me  to-day — though,  to  be  sure,  Sunday  isn't 
usually  a  day  when  exciting  things  occur." 

"Dreams  generally  go  by  contraries,"  observed  Joan 
sagely.  "And  I  rather  think  the  same  applies  to  presenti- 


THE  SECOND  MEETING  55 

ments.  I  know  that  whenever  I  have  felt  a  comfortable  as- 
surance that  everything  was  going  smoothly,  it  has  generally 
been  followed  by  one  of  the  servants  giving  notice,  or  the 
bursting  of  the  kitchen  boiler,  or  something  equally  dis- 
agreeable." 

Diana  gurgled  unfeelingly. 

"Oh,  those  are  merely  the  commonplaces  of  existence," 
she  replied.  "I  was  meaning" — waving  her  hand  expan- 
sively— "big  things." 

"And  when  you've  got  your  own  house,  my  dear,"  re- 
torted Joan,  "you'll  find  those  commonplaces  of  existence 
assume  alarmingly  big  proportions." 

Soon  after  Stair  had  finished  his  after-breakfast  pipe,  the 
chiming  of  the  bells  announced  that  it  was  time  to  prepare 
for  church.  The  Rectory  pew  was  situated  close  to  the  pul- 
pit, at  right  angles  to  the  body  of  the  church,  and  Diana 
and  Joan  took  their  places  one  at  either  end  of  it.  As  the 
former  was  wont  to  remark:  "It's  such  a  comfort  when 
there's  no  competition  for  the  corner  seats." 

The  organ  had  ceased  playing,  and  the  words  "Dearly 
beloved"  had  already  fallen  from  the  Rector's  lips,  when 
the  churchdoor  opened  once  again  to  admit  some  late  arrivals. 
Instinctively  Diana  looked  up  from  her  prayer-book,  and, 
as  her  glance  fell  upon  the  newscomers,  the  pupils  of  her  eyes 
dilated  until  they  looked  almost  black,  while  a  wave  of 
colour  rushed  over  her  face,  dyeing  it  scarlet  from  brow  to 
throat. 

Two  ladies  were  coming  up  the  aisle,  the  one  bordering 
on  middle  age,  the  other  young  and  of  uncommon  beauty, 
but  it  was  upon  neither  of  these  that  Diana's  startled  eyes 
were  fixed.  Behind  them,  and  evidently  of  their  party, 
came  a  tall,  fair  man  whose  supple  length  of  limb  and  very 
blue  eyes  sent  a  little  thrill  of  recognition  through  her 
veins. 

It  was  her  fellow-traveller  of  that  memorable  journey 
down  from  town! 


56 

She  closed  her  eyes  a  moment.  Once  again  she  could  hear 
the  horrifying  crash  as  the  engine  hurled  itself  against  the 
truck  that  blocked  the  metals,  feel  the  swift  pall  of  darkness 
close  about  her,  rife  with  a  thousand  terrors,  and  then,  out 
of  that  hideous  night,  the  grip  of  strong  arms  folded  round 
her,  and  a  voice,  harsh  with  fear,  beating  against  her  ears: 
"Are  you  hurt  ?  .  .  .  My  God,  are  you  hurt  ?" 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  the  little  party  of  three 
had  taken  their  places  and  were  composedly  following  the 
service.  Apparently  he  had  not  seen  her,  and  Diana  shrank 
a  little  closer  into  the  friendly  shadow  of  the  pulpit,  feeling 
for  the  moment  an  odd,  nervous  fear  of  encountering  his 
eyes. 

But  she  soon  realised  that  she  need  not  have  been  alarmed. 
He  was  evidently  quite  unaware  of  her  proximity,  for  his 
glance  never  once  strayed  in  her  direction,  and,  gradually 
gaining  courage  as  she  appreciated  this,  Diana  ventured  to  let 
her  eyes  turn  frequently  during  the  service  towards  the  pew 
where  the  newcomers  were  sitting. 

_  That  they  were  strangers  to  the  neighbourhood  she  was 
sure;  she  had  certainly  never  seen  either  of  the  two  women 
before.  The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  plump,  round-faced  little 
lady,  with  bright  brown  eyes,  and  pretty,  crinkly  brown  hair 
lightly  powdered  with  grey.  She  was  very  fashionably 
dressed,  and  the  careful  detail  of  her  toilet  pointed  to  no 
lack  of  means.  The  younger  woman,  too,  was  exquisitely 
turned  out,  but  there  was  something  so  individual  about 
her  personality  that  it  dominated  everything  else,  relegating 
her  clothes  to  a  very  secondary  position.  As  in  the  case  of 
an  unusually  beautiful  gem,  it  was  the  jewel  itself  which 
impressed  one,  rather  than  the  setting  which  framed  it 
round. 

She  was  very  fair,  with  quantities  of  pale  golden  hair 
rather  elaborately  dressed,  and  her  eyes  were  blue — not  the 
keen,  brilliant  blue  of  those  of  the  man  beside  her,  but  a 
soft  blue-grey,  like  the  sky  on  a  misty  summer's  morning. 


THE  SECOND  MEETING  57 

Her  email,  exquisite  features  were  clean-cut  as  a  cameo, 
and  she  carried  herself  with  a  little  touch  of  hauteur — an 
air  of  aloofness,  as  it  were.  There  was  nothing  ungracious 
about  it,  but  it  was  unmistakably  there — a  slightly  empha- 
sised hint  of  personal  dignity. 

Diana  regarded  her  with  some  perplexity;  the  girl's  face 
was  vaguely  familiar  to  her,  yet  at  the  same  time  she  felt 
perfectly  certain  that  she  had  never  seen  her  before.  She 
wondered  whether  she  were  any  relation  to  the  man  with 
her,  but  there  was  no  particular  resemblance  between  the 
two,  except  that  both  were  fair  and  bore  themselves  with  a 
certain  subtle  air  of  distinction  that  rather  singled  them  out 
from  amongst  their  fellows. 

In  repose,  Diana  noticed,  the  man's  face  was  grave  almost 
to  sternness,  and  there  was  a  slightly  worn  look  about  it  as 
of  one  who  had  passed  through  some  fiery  discipline  of  ex- 
perience and  had  forced  himself  to  meet  its  demands.  The 
lines  around  the  mouth,  and  the  firm  closing  of  the  lips,  held 
a  suggestion  of  suffering,  but  there  was  no  rebellion  in  the 
face,  rather  a  look  of  inflexible  endurance. 

Diana  wondered  what  lay  behind  that  curiously  controlled 
expression,  and  the  memory  of  certain  words  ho  had  let 
fall  during  their  journey  together  suddenly  recurred  to  her 
with  a  new  significance  attached  to  them.  .  .  .  "Just  as 
though  we  had  any  too  many  pleasures  in  life!"  he  had  said. 
And  again:  "Oh,  for  that!  If  we  could  have  what  we 
wanted  in  this  world !  .  .  ." 

Uttered  in  his  light,  half -bantering  tones,  the  bitter  flavour 
of  the  words  had  passed  her  by,  but  now,  as  she  studied  the 
rather  stern  set  of  his  features,  they  returned  to  her  with 
fresh  meaning  and  she  felt  that  their  mocking  philosophy 
was  to  a  certain  extent  indicative  of  the  man's  attitude  to- 
wards life. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  thoughts  that  the  stir  and 
rustle  of  the  congregation  issuing  from  their  seats  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  service  came  upon  her  in  the  light  of  a 


58  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

surprise;  she  had  not  realised  that  the  service — in  which 
she  had  been  taking  a  reprehensibly  perfunctory  part — had 
drawn  to  its  close,  and  she  almost  jumped  when  Joan  nudged 
her  unobtrusively  and  whispered : — 

"Come  along.    I  believe  you're  half  asleep." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiling,  and  gathering  up  her  gloves 
and  prayer-book,  she  followed  Joan  down  the  aisle  and  out 
into  the  churchyard  where  people  were  standing  about  in 
little  groups,  exchanging  the  time  of  day  with  that  air  of 
a  renewal  of  interest  in  worldly  topics  which  synchronises 
with  the  end  of  Lent. 

The  Rector  had  not  yet  appeared,  and  as  Joan  was 
chatting  with  Mrs.  Mowbray,  the  local  doctor's  wife,  Diana, 
who  had  an  intense  dislike  for  Mrs.  Mowbray  and  all  her 
works — there  were  six  of  the  latter,  ranging  from  a  lanky 
girl  of  twelve  to  a  fat  baby  still  in  the  perambulator  stage 
— made  her  way  out  of  the  churchyard  and  stood  waiting  by 
the  beautiful  old  lichgate,  which,  equally  with  the  thirteenth 
century  window,  was  a  source  of  pride  and  satisfaction  to 
the  good  folk  of  Crailing. 

A  big  limousine  had  pulled  up  beside  the  footpath,  and 
an  immaculate  footman  was  standing  by  its  open  door,  rug 
in  hand.  Diana  wondered  idly  whose  car  it  could  be,  and 
it  occurred  to  her  that  very  probably  it  belonged  to  the 
strangers  who  had  attended  the  service  that  morning. 

A  minute  later  her  assumption  was  confirmed,  as  the 
middle-aged  lady,  followed  by  the  young,  pretty  one,  came 
quickly  through  the  lichgate  and  entered  the  car.  The  foot- 
man hesitated,  still  holding  the  door  open,  and  the  elder  lady 
leaned  forward  to  say: — 

"It's  all  right,  Baker.     Mr.  Errington  is  walking  back." 

Errington !  So  that  was  his  name — that  was  what  the  E. 
on  the  handkerchief  stood  for!  Diana  thought  she  could 
hazard  a  reasonable  guess  as  to  why  he  had  elected  to  walk 
home.  He  must  have  caught  sight  of  her  in  church  after 
all,  and  it  was  but  natural  that,  after  the  experience  they 


THE  SECOND  MEETING  59 

had  passed  through  together,  he  should  wish  to  renew  his 
acquaintance  with  her.  When  two  people  have  been  as  near 
to  death  in  company  as  they  had  been,  it  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pected that  they  will  regard  each  other  in  the  light  of  total 
strangers  should  they  chance  to  meet  again. 

Hidden  from  his  sight  by  an  intervening  yew  tree,  she 
watched  him  coming  down  the  church  path,  conscious  of  a 
somewhat  pleasurable  sense  of  anticipation,  and  when  he  had 
passed  under  the  lichgate  and,  turning  to  the  left,  came 
face  to  face  with  her,  she  bowed  and  smiled,  holding  out  ^er 
hand. 

To  her  utter  amazement  he  looked  at  her  without  the 
faintest  sign  of  recognition  on  his  face,  pausing  only  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second  as  a  man  may  when  some  stranger 
claims  his  acquaintance  by  mistake;  then  with  a  murmured 
"Pardon!"  he  raised  his  hat  slightly  and  passed  on. 

Diana's  hand  dropped  slowly  to  her  side.  She  felt 
stunned.  The  thing  seemed  incredible.  Less  than  a  week 
ago  she  and  this  man  had  travelled  companionably  together 
in  the  train,  dined  at  the  same  table,  and  together  shared 
the  same  dreadful  menace  which  had  brought  death  very 
close  to  both  of  them,  and  now  he  passed  her  by  with  the 
cool  stare  of  an  utter  stranger !  If  he  h£d  knocked  her  down 
she  would  hardly  have  been  more  astonished. 

Moreover,  it  was  not  as  though  her  companionship  had 
been  forced  upon  him  in  the  train ;  he  had  deliberately  sought 
it.  Two  people  can  travel  side  by  side  without  advancing 
a  single  hairsbreadth  towards  acquaintance  if  they  choose. 
But  he  had  not  so  chosen — most  assuredly  he  had  not. 
He  had  quietly,  with  a  charmingly  persuasive  insistence, 
broken  through  the  conventions  of  custom,  and  had  subse- 
quently proved  himself  as  considerate  and  as  thoughtful  for 
her  comfort  as  any  actual  friend  could  have  been.  More 
than  that,  in  those  moments  of  tense  excitement,  immediately 
after  the  collision  had  occurred,  she  could  have  sworn  that 


60  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

real  feeling,  genuine  concern  for  her  safety,  had  vibrated  in 
his  voice. 

And  now,  just  as  deliberately,  just  as  composedly  as  he 
had  begun  the  acquaintance,  so  he  had  closed  it. 

Diana's  cheeks  burned  with  shame.  She  felt  humiliated. 
Evidently  he  had  regarded  her  merely  as  some  one  with 
whom  it  might  be  agreeable  to  idle  away  the  tedium  of  a 
journey — but  that  was  all.  It  was  obviously  his  intention 
that*that  should  be  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  it. 

In  a  dream  she  crossed  the  road  and,  opening  the  gate 
that  admitted  to  the  "church  path,"  made  her  way  home 
alone.  She  felt  she  must  have  a  few  minutes  to  herself 
before  she  faced  the  Rector  and  Joan  at  the  Rectory  mid- 
day dinner.  Fortunately,  they  were  both  in  ignorance  of 
this  amazing,  stupefying  fact  that  her  fellow-traveller — 
the  "gallant  rescuer"  about  whom  Fobs  had  so  joyously 
chaffed  her — had  signified  in  the  most  unmistakable  fashion 
that  he  wanted  nothing  more  to  do  with  her,  and  by  the  time 
the  dinner-bell  sounded,  Diana  had  herself  well  in  hand — 
so  well  that  she  was  even  able  to  ask  in  tones  of  quite  casual 
interest  if  any  one  knew  who  were  the  strangers  in  church 
that  morning? 

"Yes,  Mowbray  told  me,"  replied  the  Rector.  "They  are 
the  new  people  who  have  taken  Red  Gables — that  pretty 
little  place  on  the  Woodway  Road.  The  girl  is  Adrienne 

de  Gervais,  the  actress,  and  the  elderly  lady  is  a  Mrs.  Adams. 

.         ,         '     ,.  J        J 

her  chaperon." 

"Oh,  then  that's  why  her  face  seemed  so  familiar!"  ex- 
claimed Diana,  a  light  breaking  in  upon  her.  "I  mean 
Miss  de  Gervais' — not  the  chaperon's.  Of  course  I  must 
have  seen  her  picture  in  the  illustrated  papers  dozens  of 
times." 

"And  the  man  who  was  with  them  is  Max  Errington, 
who  writes  nearly  all  the  plays  in  which  she  takes  part," 
chimed  in  Joan.  "He's  supposed  to  be  in  love  with  her. 
That  piece  of  information  1  acquired  from  Mrs.  Mowbray." 


THE  SECOKD  MEETING  61 

"I  detest  Mrs.  Mowbray,"  said  Diana,  with  sudden  vi- 
ciousness.  "She's  the  sort  of  person-  who  has  nothing  what- 
ever to  talk  about  and  spends  hours  doing  it." 

The  others  laughed. 

"She's  rather  a  gas-bag,  I  must  admit,"  acknowledged 
Stair.  "But,  you  know,  a  country  doctor's  wife  is  usually 
the  emporium  for  all  the  local  gossip.  It's  expected  of 
her." 

"Then  I'm  sure  Mrs.  Mowbray  will  never  disappoint 
any  one.  She  fully  comes  up  to  expectations,"  observed 
Diana  crimlv 

O  «/  * 

"I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  call  on  these  new  people  at 
Red  Gables,  Dad?"  asked  Joan,  after  a  brief  interval. 

Diana  bent  her  head  suddenly  over  her  plate  to  hide 
the  scarlet  flush  which  flew  into  her  cheeks  at  the  sugges- 
tion. She  would  not  call  upon  them — a  thousand  times 
no !  Max  Errington  had  shown  her  very  distinctly  in  what 
estimation  he  held  the  honour  of  her  friendship,  and  he 
should  never  have  the  chance  of  believing  she  had  tried  to 
thrust  it  on  him. 

"Well" — the  Rector  was  replying  leisurely  to  Joan's  in- 
quiry— "I  understand  they  are  only  going  to  be  at  Red 
Gables  now  and  then — when  Miss  de  Gervais  wants  a  rest 
from  her  professional  work,  I  expect.  But  still,  as  they 
have  come  to  our  church  and  are  strangers  in  the  district, 
it  would  perhaps  be  neighbourly  to  call,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Can't  you  call  on  them,  Fobs?"  suggested  Diana.  "A 
sort  of  'rectorial'  visit,  you  know.  That  would  surely  be 
sufficient" 

The  Rector  hesitated. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  Di.  Don't  you  think  it  would 
look  rather  unfriendly  on  the  part  of  you  girls?  Rather 
snubby,  eh  ?" 

That  was  precisely  what  Diana  had  thought,  and  the 
reflection  had  afforded  her  no  small  satisfaction.  She 
wanted  to  hit  back — and  hit  hard — and  now  Fobs'  kindly, 


62  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

hospitable  nature  was  unconsciously  putting  the  brake  on 
the  wheel  of  retribution. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  an  air  of  indifference. 

"Oh,  well,  you  and  Joan  can  call.  I  don't  think  actresses, 
and  authors  who  love  them  and  write  plays  for  them,  are 
much  in  my  line,"  she  replied  distantly. 

It  would  seem  as  though  Joan's  dictum  that  presenti- 
ments, like  dreams,  go  by  contraries,  had  been  founded  upon 
the  rock  of  experience,  for,  in  truth,  Diana's  premonition 
that  something  delightful  was  about  to  happen  to  her  had 
been  fulfilled  in  a  sorry  fashion. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  AFTEKMATH  OF  AN  ADVENTURE 

DIANA  awoke  with  a  start  Before  sleep  had  over- 
taken her  she  had  been  lying  on  a  shallow  slope  of 
sand,  leaning  against  a  rock,  with  her  elbow  resting  on  its 
flat  surface  and  her  book  propped  up  in  front  of  her.  Grad- 
ually the  rhythmic  rise  and  fall  of  the  waves  on  the  shore 
had  lulled  her  into  slumber — the  plop  as  they  broke  in  eddies 
of  creaming  foam,  and  then  the  sibilant  hush-sh-sh — like  a 
long-drawn  sigh — as  the  water  receded  only  to  gather  itself 
afresh  into  a  crested  billow. 

Scarcely  more  than  half  awake  she  sat  up  and  stared 
about  her,  dreamily  wondering  how  she  came  to  be  there. 
She  felt  very  stiff,  and  the  arm  on  which  she  had  been  lean- 
ing ached  horribly.  She  rubbed  it  a  little,  dully  conscious 
of  the  pain,  and  as  the  blood  began  to  course  through  the 
veins  again,  the  sharp,  pricking  sensation  commonly  known 
as  "pins  and  needles"  aroused  her  effectually,  and  she  recol- 
lected that  she  had  walked  out  to  Culver  Point  and  estab- 
lished herself  in  one  of  the  numerous  little  bays  that  fringed 
the  foot  of  the  great  red  cliff,  intending  to  spend  a  pleasant 
afternoon  in  company  with  a  new  novel.  And  then  the 
Dustman  (idling  about  until  his  duties  proper  should  com- 
mence in  the  evening)  had  come  by  and  touched  her  eyelids 
and  she  had  fallen  fast  asleep. 

But  she  was  thoroughly  wide  awake  now,  and  she  looked 
round  her  with  a  rather  startled  expression,  realising  that 
she  must  have  slept  for  some  considerable  time,  for  the  sun, 
which  had  been  high  in  the  heavens,  had  already  dipped 
towards  the  horizon  and  was  shedding  a  rosy  track  of  light 

63 


64  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

across  the  surface  of  the  water.  The  tide,  too,  had  come  up 
a  long  way  since  she  had  dozed  off  into  slumber,  and  waves 
were  now  breaking  only  a  few  yards  distant  from  her  feet. 
She  cast  a  hasty  glance  to  right  and  left,  where  the  arms 
of  the  little  cove  stretched  out  to  meet  the  sea,  strewn  with 
big  boulders  clothed  in  shell  and  seaweed.  But  there  were 
no  rocks  to  be  seen.  The  grey  water  was  lapping  lazily 

against  the  surface  of  the  cliff  itself  and  she  was  cut 

.,,         . , 
on  either  side. 

For  a  minute  or  so  her  heart  beat  unpleasantly  fast; 
then,  with  a  quick  sense  of  relief,  she  recollected  that  only 
at  spring  tides  was  the  little  bay  where  she  stood  entirely 
under  water.  There  was  no  danger,  she  reflected,  but  never- 
theless her  position  was  decidedly  unenviable.  It  was  not 
yet  high  tide,  so  it  would  be  some  hours  at  least  before  she 
would  be  able  to  make  her  way  home,  and  meanwhile  the 
sun  was  sinking  fast,  it  was  growing  unpleasantly  cold,  and 
she  was  decidedly  hungry.  In  the  course  of  another  hour 
or  two  she  would  probably  be  hungrier  still,  but  with  no 
nearer  prospect  of  dinner,  while  the  Rector  and  Joan  would 
be  consumed  with  anxiety  as  to  what  had  become  of  her. 

Anxiously  she  scanned  the  sea,  hoping  she  might  sight 
some  homing  fishing-boat  which  she  could  hail,  but  no  wel- 
come red  or  brown  sail  broke  the  monotonous  grey  waste 
of  water,  and  in  hopes  of  warming  herself  a  little  she  began 
to  walk  briskly  up  and  down  the  little  beach  still  keeping  a 
sharp  look-out  at  sea  for  any  passing  boat. 

An  interminable  hour  crawled  by.  The  sun  dipped  a  lit- 
tle lower,  flinging  long  streamers  of  scarlet  and  gold  across 
the  sea.  Far  in  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky  a  single  star  twin- 
kled into  view,  while  a  little  sighing  breeze  arose  and  whis- 
pered of  coming  night. 

Diana  shivered  in  her  thin  blouse.  She  had  brought  no 
coat  with  her,  and,  now  that  the  mist  was  rising,  she  felt 

chilled  to  the  bone,  and  she  heartily  anathematised  her  care- 

j*          ,  ,  •       •   <          i 
lessness  for  getting  into  such,  a  scrape. 


THE  AFTERMATH  OF  AN  ADVENTURE   65 

And  then,  all  at  once,  across  the  water  came  the  welcome 
sound  of  a  human  voice: — 

"Ahoy!     Ahoy  there!" 

A  small  brown  boat  and  the  figure  of  the  man  in  it,  rest- 
ing on  his  oars,  showed  sharply  etched  against  the  back- 
ground of  the  sunset  sky. 

Diana  waved  her  handkerchief  wildly  and  the  man  waved 
back,  promptly  setting  the  boat  with  her  nose  towards  the 
shore  and  sculling  with  long,  rhythmic  strokes  that  speedily 
lessened  the  distance  between  him  and  the  eager  figure  wait- 
ing at  the  water's  edge. 

As  he  drew  nearer,  Diana  was  struck  by  something  oddly 
familiar  in  his  appearance,  and  when  he  glanced  back  over 
his  shoulder  to  gauge  his  distance  from  the  shore,  she  recog- 
nised with  a  sudden  shocked  sense  of  dismay  that  the  man 
in  the  boat  was  none  other  than  Max  Errington ! 

She  retreated  a  few  steps  hastily,  and  stood  waiting,  tense 
with  misery  and  discomfort.  Had  it  still  been  possible  she 
would  have  signalled  to  him  to  go  on  and  leave  her ;  the  bare 
thought  of  being  indebted  to  him — to  this  man  who  had 
coolly  cut  her  in  the  street — for  escape  from  her  present 
predicament  filled  her  with  helpless  rage. 

But  it  was  too  late.  Errington  gave  a  final  pull,  shipped 
his  oars,  and,  as  the  boat  rode  in  on  the  top  of  a  wave,  leaped 
out  on  the  shore  and  beached  her  safely.  Then  he  turned 
and  strode  towards  Diana,  his  face  wearing  just  that  same 
concerned,  half-angry  look  that  it  had  done  when  he  found 
her,  shortly  after  the  railway  collision,  trying  to  help  the 
woman  who  had  lost  her  child. 

"What  in  the  name  of  heaven  and  earth  are  you  doing 
here?"  he  demanded  brusquely. 

Apparently  he  had  entirely  forgotten  the  more  recent 
episode  of  Easter  Sunday  and  was  prepared  to  scold  her 
roundly,  exactly  as  he  had  done  on  that  same  former  occa- 
sion. The  humour  of  the  situation  suddenly  caught  hold  of 


66  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana,  and  for  the  moment  she,  too,  forgot  that  she  had  rea- 
son to  be  bitterly  offended  with  this  man. 

"Waiting  for  you  to  rescue  me — as  usual,"  she  retorted 
frivolously.  "You  seem  to  be  making  quite  a  habit  of  it." 

He  smiled  grimly. 

"I'm  making  a  virtue  of  necessity,"  he  flung  back  at  her. 
"What  on  earth  do  your  people  mean  by  letting  you  roam 
about  by  yourself  like  this?  You're  not  fit  to  be  alone! 
As  though  a  railway  accident  weren't  sufficient  excitement 
for  any  average  woman,  you  must  needs  try  to  drown  your- 
self. Are  you  so  particularly  anxious  to  get  quit  of  this 
world?" 

"Drown  myself?"  she  returned  scornfully.  "How  could 
I — when  the  sea  doesn't  come  up  within  a  dozen  yards  of 
the  cliff  except  at  spring  tide?" 

"And  I  suppose  it  hadn't  occurred  to  you  that  this  is  a 
spring  tide?"  he  said  drily.  "In  another  hour  or  so  there'll 
be  six  feet  of  water  where  we're  standing  now." 

The  abrupt  realisation  that  once  again  she  had  escaped 
death  by  so  narrow  a  margin  shook  her  for  a  moment,  and 
she  swayed  a  little  where  she  stood,  while  her  face  went 
suddenly  very  white. 

In  an  instant  his  arm  was  round  her,  supporting  her.  "I 
oughtn't  to  have  told  you,"  he  said  hastily.  "Forgive  me. 
You're  tired — and,  merciful  heavens!  child,  you're  half- 
frozen.  Your  teeth  are  chattering  with  cold." 

He  stripped  off  his  coat  and  made  as  though  to  help  her 
on  with  it. 

"No — no,"  she  protested.  "I  shall  be  quite  warm  di- 
rectly. Please  put  on  your  coat  again." 

He  shook  his  head,  smiling  down  at  her,  and  taking  first 
one  of  her  arms,  and  then  the  other,  he  thrust  them  into 
the  empty  sleeves,  putting  the  coat  on  her  as  one  would 
dress  a  child. 

"I'm  used  to  having  my  own  way,"  he  observed  coolly, 
as  he  proceeded  to  button  it  round  her. 


THE  AFTEKMATH  OF  AN  ADVEtfTUBE      «7 

"But  you?1 "  she  faltered,  looking  at  the  thin  silk 

of  his  shirt. 

"I'm  not  a  lady  with  a  beautiful  voice  that  must  ba  taken 
care  of.  What  would  Signor  Baroni  say  to  this  afternoon's 
exploit?" 

"Oh,  then  you  haven't  forgotten  ?"  Diana  asked  curiously. 

The  intensely  blue  eyes  swept  over  her  face. 

"No,"  he  replied  shortly,  "I  haven't  forgotten," 

In  silence  he  helped  her  into  the  boat,  and  she  eat  quietly 
in  the  stern  as  he  bent  to  his  oars  and  sent  the  little  skiff 
speeding  homewards  towards  the  harbour. 

She  felt  strangely  content.  The  fact  that  he  had  delib- 
erately refused  to  recognise  her  seemed  a  matter  of  very 
small  moment  now  that  he  had  spoken  to  her  again — eoold- 
ing  her  and  enforcing  her  obedience  to  his  wishes  in  that 
oddly  masterful  way  of  his,  which  yet  had  something  of  a 
possessive  tenderness  about  it  that  appealed  irresistibly  to 
the  woman  in  her. 

Arrived  at  the  quay  of  the  little  harbour,  he  helped  her 
up  the  steps,  slimy  with  weed  and  worn  by  the  ceaseless 
lapping  of  the  water,  and  the  firm  clasp  of  his  hand  on  hers 
conveyed  a  curious  sense  of  security,  extending  beyond  just 
the  mere  safety  of  the  moment.  She  had  a  feeling  that 
there  was  something  immutably  strong  and  sure  about  this 
man — a  calm,  steadfast  self-reliance  to  which  one  could  un- 
hesitatingly trust. 

His  voice  broke  in  abruptly  on  her  thoughts. 

"My  car's  waiting  at  the  quayside,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
drive  you  back  to  the  Rectory." 

Diana  assented — not,  as  she  thought  to  herself  with  a 
somewhat  wry  smile,  that  it  would  have  made  the  very 
slightest  difference  had  she  refused  point-blank.  Since  he 
had  decided  that  she  was  to  travel  in  his  car,  travel  in  it 
she  would,  willy-nilly.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  ate  was 
sa-tired  that  she  was  only  too  thankful  to  sink  batik  on 
to  the  aoft,  luxurious  cushions  of  the  big  limousine. 


68  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Errington  tucked  the  rugs  carefully  round  her,  substi- 
tuting one  of  them  for  the  coat  she  was  wearing,  spoke  a 
few  words  to  the  chauffeur,  and  then  seated  himself  oppo- 
site her. 

Diana  thought  the  car  seemed  to  be  travelling  rather 
slowly  as  it  began  the  steep  ascent  from  the  harbour  to  the 
Rectory.  Possibly  the  chauffeur  who  had  taken  his  mas- 
ter's instructions  might  have  thrown  some  light  on  the  sub- 
ject had  he  so  chosen. 

"Quite  warm  now  ?"  queried  Errington. 

Diana  snuggled  luxuriously  into  her  corner. 

"Quite,  thanks,"  she  replied.  "You're  rapidly  qualifying 
as  a  good  Samaritan  par  excellence,  thanks  to  the  constant 
opportunities  I  afford  you." 

He  laughed  shortly  and  relapsed  into  silence,  leaning  his 
elbow  on  the  cushioned  ledge  beside  him  and  shading  his 
face  with  his  hand.  Beneath  its  shelter,  the  keen  blue  eyes 
stared  at  the  girl  opposite  with  an  odd,  thwarted  expression 
in  their  depths. 

Presently  Diana  spoke  again,  a  tinge  of  irony  in  her  tones. 

"And — after  this — when  next  we  meet  .  .  .  are  you  go- 
ing to  cut  me  again  ?  ...  It  must  have  been  very  tiresome 
for  you  that  an  unkind  fate  insisted  on  your  making  my 
closer  acquaintance." 

He  dropped  his  hand  suddenly. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  quick  gesture  of 
deprecation.  "It — it  was  unpardonable  of  me  .  .  ."  His 
voice  vibrated  with  some  strong  emotion,  and  Diana  re- 
garded him  curiously. 

"Then  you  meant  it?"  she  said  slowly.  "It  was  delib- 
erate ?" 

He  bent  his  head  affirmatively. 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  suppose  you  think  it  unforgivable. 
And  yet — and  yet  it  would  have  been  better  so." 

"Better?  But  why?  I'm  generally" — dimpling  a  lit- 
tle— "considered  rather  nice." 


THE  AFTERMATH  OF  AN  ADVENTURE   69 

"  'Rather  nice'  ?"  he  repeated  in  a  peculiar  tone.  "Oh, 
yes — that  does  not  surprise  me." 

"And  some  day/'  she  continued  gaily,  "although  I'm  no- 
body just  now,  I  may  become  a  really  famous  person — and 
then  you  might  be  quite  happy  to  know  me!" 

Her  eyes  danced  with  mirth  as  she  rallied  him. 

He  looked  at  her  strangely. 

"No — it  can  never  bring  me  happiness.  .  .  .  Ah,  mais 
jamais!"  he  added,  with  sudden  passion. 

Diana  was  startled. 

"It — it  was  horrid  of  you  to  cut  me,"  she  said  in  a 
troubled  voice. 

"My  punishment  lies  in  your  hands,"  he  returned. 
"When  I  leave  you  at  the  Rectory — after  to-day — you  can 
end  our  acquaintance  if  you  choose.  And  I  suppose — you 
will  choose.  It  would  be  contrary  to  human  nature  to  throw 
away  such  an  excellent  opportunity  for  retaliation — femi- 
nine human  nature,  anyway." 

He  spoke  with  a  kind  of  half-savage  raillery,  and  Diana 
winced  under  it.  His  moods  changed  so  rapidly  that  she 
was  bewildered.  At  one  moment  there  would  be  an  ex- 
quisite gentleness  in  his  manner  when  he  spoke  to  her,  at 
the  next  a  contemptuous  irony  that  cut  like  a  whip. 

"Would  it  be — a  punishment  ?"  she  asked  at  last. 

He  checked  a  sudden  movement  towards  her. 

"What  do  you  suppose?"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  If  it  would  be  a  punish- 
ment, why  were  you  so  anxious  to  take  it  out  of  my  hands  ? 
It  was  you  who  ended  our  acquaintance  on  Sunday,  remem- 
ber." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Twice  I've  closed  the  door  between,  us,  and 
twice  fate  has  seen  fit  to  open  it  again." 

"Twice?  .  .  .  Then — then  it  was  you — in  Grellingham 
Place  that  day?" 

"Yes,"  he  acknowledged  simply. 


70  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana  bent  her  head  to  hide  the  small,  secret  smile  that 
curved  her  lips. 

At  last,  after  a  pause — 

"But  why — why  do  you  not  want  to  know  me  ?"  she  asked 
wonderingly. 

"Not  want  to?"  he  muttered  below  his  breath.  "God 
in  heaven!  Not  want  to!"  His  hand  moved  restlessly. 
After  a  minute  he  answered  her,  speaking  very  gently. 

"Because  I  think  you  were  born  to  stand  in  the  sun- 
shina  Some  of  us  stand  always  in  the  shadow;  it  creeps 
about  our  feet,  following  us  wherever  we  go.  And  I  would 
not  darken  the  sunlit  places  of  your  life  with  the  shadow 
that  clinga  to  mine." 

There  was  an  undercurrent  of  deep  sadness  in  his  tones. 

"Can't  you — can't  you  banish  the  shadow?"  faltered 
Diana.  A  sense  of  tragedy  oppressed  her.  "Life  is  surely 
made  for  happiness,"  she  added,  a  little  wistfully. 

"Your  life,  I  hope."  He  smiled  across  at  her.  "So 
don't  let  us  talk  any  more  about  the  shadow.  Only"- 
gently — "if  I  came  nearer  to  you — the  shadow  might  engulf 
you,  too."  He  paused,  then  continued  more  lightly :  "But 
if  you'll  forgive  my  barbarous  incivility  of  Sunday,  perhaps 
— perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to  stand  just  on  the  outskirts 
of  your  life — watch  you  pass  by  on  your  road  to  fame,  and 
tosa  a  flower  at  your  feet  when  all  the  world  and  his  wife 
are  crowding  to  hear  the  new  prima  donna/'  He  had 
dropped  back  into  the  vein  of  light,  ironical  mockery  which 
Diana  was  learning  to  recognise  as  characteristic  of  the  man. 
It  was  like  the  rapier  play  of  a  skilled  duellist,  his  weapon 
flashing  hither  and  thither,  parrying  every  thrust  of  his  op- 
ponent, and  with  consummate  ease  keeping  him  ever  at  a 
distance. 

"I  wonder" — he  regarded  her  with  an  expression  of 
amused  curiosity — "I  wonder  whether  you  would  stoop  to 
pick  up  my  flower  if  I  threw  one  ?  But,  no" — he  answered 
his  own  question  hastily,  giving  her  no  time  to  reply — 


THE  AFTERMATH  OF  AN  ADVENTURE   71 

"you  would  push  it  contemptuously  aside  with  the  point  of 
your  little  white  slipper,  and  say  to  yonr  crowd  of  admir- 
ers standing  around  you :  'That  flower  is  the  gift  of  a  man 
— a  rough  boor  of  a  man — who  was  atrociously  rude  to  me 
once.  I  don't  even  value  it  enough  to  pick  it  up.'  Where- 
upon every  one — quite  rightly,  too! — would  cry  shame  on 
the  man  who  had  dared  to  insult  so  charming  a  lady — prob- 
ably adding  that  if  bad  luck  befell  him  it  would  be  no  more 
than  he  deserved!  .  .  .  And  I've  no  doubt  he'll  get  his 
deserts,"  he  added  carelessly. 

Diana  felt  the  tears  very  near  her  eyes  and  her  lip  quiv- 
ered. This  man  had  the  power  of  hurting  her — wounding 
her  to  the  quick — with  his  bitter  raillery. 

When  she  spoke  again  her  voice  shook  a  little. 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  said,  "quite  wrong.  I  should  pick 
up  the  flower  and" — steadily — "I  should  keep  it,  because 
it  was  thrown  to  me  by  a  man  who  had  twice  done  me  the 
greatest  service  in  his  power." 

Once  again  he  checked,  as  if  by  sheer  force  of  will,  a 
sudden  eager  movement  towards  her. 

"Would  you  ?"  he  said  quickly.  "Would  you  do  that  ? 
But  you  would  be  mistaken ;  I  should  be  gaining  your  kind- 
ness under  false  pretences.  The  greatest  service  in  my 
power  would  be  for  me  to  go  away  and  never  see  you  again. 
.  .  .  And  I  can't  do  that- — now,"  he  added,  his  voice  vibrat- 
ing oddly. 

His  eyes  held  her,  and  at  the  sound  of  that  sudden  note 
of  passion  in  his  tone  she  felt  some  new,  indefinable  emotion 
stir  within  her  that  was  half  pain,  half  pleasure.  Her  eye- 
lids closed,  and  she  stretched  out  her  hands  a  little  grop- 
ingly, almost  as  if  she  were  trying  to  ward  away  something 
that  threatened  her. 

There  was  appeal  in  the  gesture — a  pathetic,  half-childish 
appeal,  as  though  the  shy,  virginal  youth  of  her  sensed  the 
distant  tumult  of  awakening  passion  and  would  fain  delay 
its  coming. 


72  THE  SPLEKDID  FOLLY 

She  was  just  a  frank,  whole-hearted  girl,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  love  and  its  strange,  inevitable  claim,  but  deep  within 
her  spoke  that  instinct,  premonition — call  it  what  you  will 
• — which  seems  in  some  mysterious  way  to  warn  every  woman 
when  the  great  miracle  of  love  is  drawing  near.  It  is  as 
though  Love's  shadow  fell  across  her  heart  and  she  were 
afraid  to  turn  and  face  him — shrinking  with  the  terror  of  a 
trapped  wild  thing  from  meeting  his  imperious  demand. 

Errington,  watching  her,  saw  the  childish  gesture,  the 
quiver  of  her  mouth,  the  soft  fall  of  the  shadowed  lids,  and 
with  a  swift,  impetuous  movement  he  leaned  forward  and 
caught  her  by  the  arms,  pulling  her  towards  him.  Instinc- 
tively she  resisted,  struggling  in  his  grip,  her  eyes,  wide 
and  startled,  gazing  into  his. 

"Diana!" 

The  word  seemed  wrung  from  him,  and  as  though  some- 
thing within  her  answered  to  its  note  of  urgency,  she  sud- 
denly yielded,  stumbling  forward  on  to  her  knees.  His  arms 
closed  round  her,  holding  her  as  in  a  vice,  and  she  lay  there, 
helpless  in  his  grasp,  her  head  thrown  back  a  little,  her 
young,  slight  breast  fluttering  beneath  the  thin  silk  of  her 
blouse. 

For  a  moment  he  held  her  so,  staring  down  at  her,  his 
breath  hard-drawn  between  his  teeth;  then  swiftly,  with  a 
stifled  exclamation  he  stooped  his  head,  kissing  her  sav- 
agely, bruising,  crushing  her  lips  beneath  his  own. 

She  felt  her  strength  going  from  her — it  seemed  as  though 
he  were  drawing  her  soul  out  from  her  body — and  then, 
just  as  sheer  consciousness  itself  was  wavering,  he  took  his 
mouth  from  hers,  and  she  could  see  his  face,  white  and 
strained,  bent  above  her. 

She  leaned  away  from  him,  panting  a  little,  her  shoulders 
against  the  side  of  the  car. 

"God !"  she  heard  him  mutter. 

For  a  space  the  throb  of  the  motor  was  the  only  sound 
that  broke  the  stillness,  but  presently,  after  what  seemed 


THE  AFTERMATH  OF  AN  ADVENTURE      73 

an  eternity,  he  raised  her  from  the  floor,  where  she  still 
knelt  inertly,  and  set  her  on  the  seat  again.  She  submitted 
passively. 

When  he  had  resumed  his  place,  he  spoke  in  dry,  level 
tones. 

"I  suppose  I'm  damned  beyond  forgiveness  after  this?" 

She  made  no  answer.  She  was  listening  with  a  curious 
fascination  to  the  throb  of  her  heart  and  the  measured  beat 
of  the  engine;  the  two  seemed  to  meet  and  mingle  into  one 
great  pulse,  thundering  against  her  tired  brain. 

"Diana" — he  spoke  again,  still  in  the  same  toneless  voice 
— "am  I  to  be  forbidden  even  the  outskirts  of  your  life 
now  ?" 

She  moved  her  head  restlessly. 

"I  don't  know — oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  whispered. 

She  was  utterly  spent  and  exhausted.  Unconsciously 
every  nerve  in  her  had  responded  to  the  fierce  passion  of 
that  suffocating  kiss,  and  now  that  the  tense  moment  was 
over  she  felt  drained  of  all  vitality.  Her  head  drooped  list- 
lessly against  the  cushions  of  the  car  and  dark  shadows 
stained  her  cheeks  beneath  the  wide-opened  eyes — eyes  that 
held  the  startled,  frightened  expression  of  one  who  has  heard 
for  the  first  time  the  beat  of  Passion's  wings. 

Gradually,  as  Errington  watched  her,  the  strained  look  left 
his  face  and  was  replaced  by  one  of  infinite  solicitude.  She 
looked  so  young  as  she  lay  there,  huddled  against  the  cush- 
ions— hardly  more  than  a  child — and  he  knew  what  that 
mad  moment  had  done  for  her.  It  had  wakened  the  woman 
within  her.  He  cursed  himself  softly. 

"Diana,"  he  said,  leaning  forward.  "For  God's  sake,  say 
you  forgive  me,  child." 

The  deep  pain  in  his  voice  pierced  through  her  dulled 
senses. 

"Why — why  did  you  do  it?"  she  asked  tremulously. 

"I  did  it — oh,  because  for  the  moment  I  forgot  that  I'm 
a  man  barred  out  from  all  that  makes  life  worth  living! 


74  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

...  I  forgot  about  the  shadow,  Diana,  .  .  .  You — made 
me  forget" 

He  spoke  with  concentrated  bitterness,  adding  mock- 
ingly:— 

"After  all,  there's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  in  favour  of  the 
Turkish  yashmak.  It  at  least  removes  temptation." 

Diana's  hand  flew  to  her  lips — they  burned  still  at  the 
memory  of  those  kisses — and  he  smiled  ironically  at  the  in- 
stinctive gesture. 

"I  hate  you !"  she  said  suddenly. 

"Quite  the  most  suitable  thing  you  could  do,"  he  an- 
swered composedly.  All  the  softened  feeling  of  a  few  mo- 
ments ago  had  vanished :  he  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  his 
usual  sardonic  humour,  putting  a  barrier  between  himself 
and  her  that  set  them  miles  apart. 

Diana  was  conscious  of  a  fury  of  resentment  against  his 
calm  readjustment  of  the  situation.  He  was  the  offender; 
it  was  for  her  to  dictate  the  terms  of  peace,  and  he  had  sud- 
denly eut  the  ground  from  tfnder  her  feet.  Her  pride  rose 
in  arms.  If  he  could  so  contemptuously  sweep  aside  the 
memory  of  the  last  ten  minutes,  careless  whether  his  plea 
for  forgiveness  were  granted  or  no,  she  would  show  him 
that  for  her,  too,  the  incident  was  closed.  But  she  would 
not  forgive  him — ever. 

She  opened  her  campaign  at  once. 

"Surely  we  must  be  almost  at  the  Rectory  by  now?"  she 
began  in  politely  conventional  tones. 

A  sudden  gleam  of  wicked  mirth  flashed  across  his  face. 

"Has  the  time,  then,  seemed  so  long?"  he  demanded 
coolly. 

Diana's  lips  trembled  in  the  vain  effort  to  repress  a  smile. 
The  man  was  impossible!  It  was  also  very  difficult,  she 
found,  to  remain  righteously  angry  with  such  an  impos- 
sible person. 

If  he  saw  the  smile,  he  gave  no  indication  of  it.  Rub- 
bing the  window  with  his  hand  he  peered  out 


THE  AFTERMATH  OF  AN  ADVENTURE   75 

"I  think  we  are  just  turning  in  at  the  Rectory  gates," 
he  remarked  carelessly. 

In  another  minute  the  motor  had  throbbed  to  a  stand- 
still and  the  chauffeur  was  standing  at  the  open  door. 

"I'm  sorry  we've  been  so  long  coming,  sir,"  he  said,  touch- 
ing his  hat.  "I  took  a  wrong  turning — lost  me  way  a  bit." 

Then,  as  Errington  and  Diana  passed  into  the  house,  he 
added  thoughtfully,  addressing  his  engine: — 

"She's  a  pretty  little  bit  of  skirt  and  no  mistake.  I  won- 
der, now,  if  we  was  lost  long  enough,  eh,  Billy  8" 


CHAPTER  VII 

DIANA  SINGS 

I  FEEL  that  we  are  very  much  indebted  to  you,  Mr. 
Errington,"  said  Stair,  when  he  and  Joan  had  listened 
to  an  account  of  the  afternoon's  proceedings — the  major 
portion  of  them,  that  is.  Certain  details  were  not  included 
in  the  veracious  history.  "You  seem  to  have  a  happy  knack 
of  turning  up  just  at  the  moment  you  are  most  needed," 
he  added  pleasantly. 

"I  think  I  must  plead  indebtedness  to  Miss  Quentin  for 
allowing  me  such  unique  opportunities  of  playing  knight 
errant,"  replied  Max,  smiling.  "Such  chances  are  rare  in 
this  twentieth  century  of  ours,  and  Miss  Quentin  always 
kindly  arranges  so  that  I  run  no  serious  risks — to  life  and 
limb,  at  least,"  he  added,  his  mocking  eyes  challenging 
Diana's. 

She  flushed  indignantly.  Evidently  he  wished  her  to  un- 
derstand that  that  breathless  moment  in  the  car  counted  for 
nothing — must  not  be  taken  seriously.  He  had  only  been 
amusing  himself  with  her — just  as  he  had  amused  himself 
by  chatting  in  the  train — and  again  a  wave  of  resentment 
against  him,  against  the  cool,  dominating  insolence  of  the 
man,  surged  through  her. 

"I  hope  you'll  stay  and  join  us  at  dinner,"  the  Rector  was 
saying — "unless  it's  hopelessly  spoilt  by  waiting  so  long. 
Is  it,  Joan?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  think  there'll  be  some  surviving  remnants," 
she  assured  him. 

"Then  if  you'll  overlook  any  discrepancies,"  pursued 
Stair,  smiling  at  Errington,  "do  stay." 

76 


DIANA  SINGS  77 

"Say,  rather,  if  you'll  overlook  discrepancies,"  answered 
Errington,  smiling  back — there  was  something  infectious 
about  Stair's  geniality.  "I'm  afraid  a  boiled  shirt  is  out 
of  the  question — unless  I  go  home  to  fetch  it !" 

Diana  stared  at  him.  Was  he  really  going  to  stay — to 
accept  the  invitation — after  all  that  had  occurred?  If  he 
did,  she  thought  scornfully,  it  was  only  in  keeping  with  that 
calm  arrogance  of  his  by  which  he  allocated  to  himself  the 
right  to  do  precisely  as  he  chose,  irrespective  of  convention 
— or  of  other  people's  feelings. 

Meanwhile  Stair  was  twinkling  humorously  across  at  his 
visitor. 

"If  you  can  bear  to  eat  your  dinner  without  being  en- 
cased in  the  regulation  starch,"  he  said,  "I  don't  think  I 
should  advise  risking  what  remains  of  it  by  any  further 
delay." 

"Then  I  accept  with  pleasure,"  replied  Errington. 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  sought  Diana's  once  again.  It  al- 
most seemed  as  though  they  pleaded  with  her  for  under- 
standing. The  half-sad,  half-bitter  mouth  smiled  faintly, 
the  smile  accentuating  that  upward  curve  at  the  corners  of 
the  lips  which  lent  such  an  unexpected  sweetness  to  its  stem 
lines. 

Diana  looked  away  quickly,  refusing  to  endorse  the  Rec- 
tor's invitation,  and,  escaping  to  her  own  room,  she  made 
a  hasty  toilet,  slipping  into  a  simple  little  black  gown  open 
at  the  throat.  Meanwhile,  she  tortured  herself  with  ques- 
tioning as  to  why — if  all  that  had  passed  meant  nothing  to 
him — he  had  chosen  to  stay.  Once  she  hid  her  burning  face 
in  her  hands  as  the  memory  of  those  kisses  rushed  over  her 
afresh,  sending  little,  new,  delicious  thrills  coursing  through 
her  veins.  Then  once  more  the  maddening  doubt  assailed 
her — were  they  but  a  bitter  humiliation  which  she  would 
remember  for  the  rest  of  her  life? 

When  she  came  downstairs  again,  Max  Errington  and 
Stair  were  conversing  happily  together,  evidently  on  the 


78  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

best  of  terms  with  themselves  and  each  other.  Errington 
was  speaking  as  she  entered  the  room,  but  he  stopped 
abruptly,  biting  his  words  off  short,  while  his  keen  eyes 
swept  over  the  slim,  black-gowned  figure  hesitating  in  the 
doorway. 

"Mr.  Stair  has  been  pledging  your  word  during  your  ab- 
sence," he  said.  "He  has  promised  that  you'll  sing  to  us 
after  dinner." 

"I?  Oh"— nervously— -"I  don't  think  I  want  to  sing 
this  evening." 

"Why  not  ?  Have  the" — he  made  an  infinitesimal  pause, 
regarding  her  the  while  with  quizzical  eyes — "events  of  the 
afternoon  robbed  you  of  your  voice?" 

Diana  gave  him  back  his  look  defiantly.  How  dared  he 
— oh,  how  dared  he? — she  thought  indignantly. 

"My  adventures  weren't  serious  enough  for  that,"  she  re- 
plied composedly. 

The  ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  across  his  face. 

"Then  you  will  sing  ?"  he  persisted. 

"Yes,  if  you  like." 

He  nodded  contentedly,  and  as  they  went  in  to  dinner  he 
whispered : — 

"I  found  the  adventure — rather  serious." 

Dinner  passed  pleasantly  enough.  Errington  and  Stair 
contributed  most  of  the  conversation,  the  former  proving 
himself  a  charming  guest,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  two 
men  had  taken  a  great  liking  to  each  other.  It  would  have 
been  a  difficult  subject  indeed  who  did  not  feel  attracted  by 
Alan  Stair;  he  was  so  unconventionally  frank  and  sincere, 
brimming  over  with  humour,  and  he  regarded  every  man 
as  his  friend  until  he  had  proved  him  otherwise — and  even 
then  he  was  disposed  to  think  that  the  fault  must  lie  some- 
where in  himself. 

"I'm  not  surprised  that  your  church  was  so  full  on  Sun- 
day," Errington  told  him,  "now  that  I've  met  you.  If  the 
Gbnrwh  of  England  clergy,  as  a  whole,  were  as  human  as 


DIANA  SINGS  79 

you  are,  you  would  have  fewer  offshoots  from  your  Estab- 
lished Church.  I  always  think" — reminisoently — "that 
that  is  where  the  strength  of  the  Roman  Catholic  padre  lies 
— in  his  intense  humanness" 

The  Rector  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Then  you're  not  a  member  of  our  Church?"  he  asked. 

For  a  moment  Errington  looked  embarrassed,  as  though 
he  had  said  more  than  he  wished  to. 

"Oh,  I  was  merely  comparing  the  two,"  he  replied  eva- 
sively. "I  have  lived  abroad  a  good  bit,  you  know." 

"Ah!  That  explains  it,  then,"  said  Stair.  "You've 
caught  some  little  foreign  turns  of  speech.  Several  times 
I've  wondered  if  you  were  entirely  English." 

Errington's  face,  as  he  turned  to  reply,  wore  that  politely 
blank  expression  which  Diana  had  encountered  more  than 
once  when  conversing  with  him — always  should  she  chance 
to  touch  on  any  subject  the  natural  answer  to  which  might 
have  revealed  something  of  the  man's  private  life. 

"Oh,"  he  answered  the  Rector  lightly,  "I  believe  there's 
a  dash  of  foreign  blood  in  my  veins,  but  I've  a  right  to  call 
myself  an  Englishman." 

After  dinner,  while  the  two  men  had  their  smoke,  Diana, 
heedless  of  Joan's  common-sense  remonstrance  on  the  score 
of  dew-drenched  grass,  flung  on  a  cloak  and  wandered  rest- 
lessly out  into  the  moonlit  garden.  She  felt  that  it  would 
be  an  utter  impossibility  to  sit  still,  waiting  until  the  men 
came  into  the  drawing-room,  and  she  paced  slowly  backwards 
and  forwards  across  the  lawn,  a  slight,  shadowy  figure  in  the 
patch  of  silver  light. 

Presently  she  saw  the  French  window  of  the  dining-room 
open,  and  Max  Errington  step  across  the  threshold  and 
come  swiftly  over  the  lawn  towards  her. 

"I  see  you  are  bent  on  courting  rheumatic  fever — to  say 
nothing  of  a  sore  throat,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  I've  come 
to  take  you  indoors." 


80  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana  was  instantly  filled  with  a  perverse  desire  to  re- 
main where  she  was. 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  cold,  thank  you,"  she  replied  stiffly. 
"And — I  like  it  out  here." 

"You  may  not  be  cold,"  he  returned  composedly.  "But 
I'm  quite  sure  your  feet  are  damp.  Come  along." 

He  put  his  arm  under  hers,  impelling  her  gently  in  the 
direction  of  the  house,  and,  rather  to  her  own  surprise,  she 
found  herself  accompanying  him  without  further  opposition. 

Arrived  at  the  house,  he  knelt  down  and,  taking  up  her 
foot  in  his  hand,  deliberately  removed  the  little  pointed 
slipper. 

"There,"  he  said  conclusively,  exhibiting  its  sole,  dank 
with  dew.  "Go  up  and  put  on  a  pair  of  dry  shoes  and  then 
come  down  and  sing  to  me." 

And  once  again  she  found  herself  meekly  obeying  him. 

By  the  time  she  had  returned  to  the  drawing-room,  Fobs 
and  Errington  were  choosing  the  songs  they  wanted  her  to 
sing,  while  Joan  was  laughingly  protesting  that  they  had 
selected  all  those  with  the  most  difficult  accompaniments. 

"However,  I'll  do  my  best,  Di,"  she  added,  as  she  seated 
herself  at  the  piano. 

Joan's  "best"  as  a  pianist  did  not  amount  to  very  much 
at  any  time,  and  she  altogether  lacked  that  intuitive  un- 
derstanding and  sympathy  which  is  the  sine  qua  non  of  a 
good  accompanist.  Diana,  accustomed  to  the  trained  per- 
fection of  Olga  Lermontof,  found  herself  considerably  han- 
dicapped, and  her  rendering  of  the  song  in  question,  Saint- 
Saens'  Amour,  viens  aider,  left  a  good  deal  to  be  desired  in 
consequence — a  fact  of  which  no  one  was  more  conscious  than 
she  herself. 

But  the  voice!  As  the  full  rich  notes  hung  on  the  air, 
vibrant  with  that  indescribably  thrilling  quality  which  seems 
the  prerogative  of  the  contralto,  Errington  recognised  at 
once  that  here  was  a  singer  destined  to  make  her  mark. 
The  slight  surprise  which  he  had  evinced  on  first  learning 


DIAJtf  A  SINGS  81 

that  she  was  a  pupil  of  the  great  Baroni  vanished  instantly. 
No  master  could  be  better  fitted  to  have  the  handling  of  such 
a  voice — and  certainly,  he  added  mentally,  Joan  Stair  waa 
a  ludicrously  inadequate  accompanist,  only  to  be  excused 
by  her  frank  acknowledgment  of  the  fact. 

"I'm  dreadfully  sorry,  Di,"  she  said  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  song.  "But  I  really  can't  manage  the  accompaniment." 

Errington  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  the  piano. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  take  your  place?"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. "That  is,  if  Miss  Quentin  permits?  It  is  hard 
lines  to  be  suddenly  called  upon  to  read  accompaniments  if 
you  are  not  accustomed  to  it." 

"Oh,  do  you  play?"  exclaimed  Joan,  vacating  her  seat 
gladly.  "Then  please  do.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  committing 
murder  when  I  stumble  through  Diana's  songs." 

She  joined  the  Rector  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  adding 
with  a  smile: — 

"I  make  a  much  better  audience  than  performer." 

"What  shall  it  be?"  said  Errington,  turning  over  the  pile 
of  songs. 

"What  you  like,"  returned  Diana  indifferently.  She  was 
rather  pale,  and  her  hand  shook  a  little  as  she  fidgeted  rest- 
lessly with  a  sheet  of  music.  It  almost  seemed  as  though 
the  projected  change  of  accompanist  were  distasteful  to  her. 

Max  laid  his  own  hand  over  hers  an  instant. 

"Please  let  me  play  for  you,"  he  said  simply. 

There  was  a  note  of  appeal  in  his  voice — rather  as  if  he 
were  seeking  to  soften  her  resentment  against  him,  and 
would  regard  the  permission  to  accompany  her  as  a  token 
of  forgiveness.  She  met  his  glance,  wavered  a  moment,  then 
bent  her  head  in  silence,  and  each  of  them  was  conscious 
that  in  some  mysterious  way,  without  the  interchange  of 
further  words,  an  armistice  had  been  declared  between 
them. 

With  Errington  at  the  piano  the  music  took  on  a  differ- 
ent aspect  He  waa  an  incomparable  accompanist,  and 


82  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana,  feeling  herself  supported  and  upborne,  sang  with  a 
beauty  of  interpretation,  an  intensity  of  feeling,  that  had 
been  impossible  before.  And  through  it  all  she  was  acutely 
conscious  of  Max  Errington's  proximity — knew  instinctively 
that  the  passion  of  the  song  was  shaking  him  equally  with 
herself.  It  was  as  though  some  intangible  live  wire  were 
stretched  between  them  so  that  each  could  sense  the  emotion 
of  the  other — as  though  the  garment  with  which  we  so  per- 
sistently conceal  our  souls  from  one  another's  eyes  were 
suddenly  stripped  away. 

There  was  a  tense  look  in  Max's  face  as  the  last  note  trem- 
bled into  silence,  and  Diana,  meeting  his  glance,  flushed 
rosily. 

"I  can't  sing  any  more,"  she  said,  her  voice  uneven. 

"No." 

He  added  nothing  to  the  laconic  negative,  but  his  eyes  held 
hers  remorselessly. 

Then  Fobs'  cheerful  tones  fell  on  their  ears  and  the  taut 
moment  passed. 

"Di,  you  amazing  child !"  he  exclaimed  delightfully. 
"Where  did  you  find  a  voice  like  that?  I  realise  now  that 
we've  been  entertaining  geniu's  unawares  all  this  time. 
Joan,  my  dear,  henceforth  two  commonplace  bodies  like  you 
and  me  must  resign  ourselves  to  taking  a  back  seat." 

"I  don't  mind,"  returned  Joan  philosophically.  "I  think 
I  was  born  with  a  humdrum  nature ;  a  quiet  life  was  always 
my  idea  of  bliss." 

"Sing  something  else,  Di,"  begged  Stair.  But  Diana 
shook  her  head. 

"I'm  too  tired,  Fobs,"  she  said  quietly.  Turning  abruptly 
to  Errington  she  continued:  "Will  you  play  instead?" 

Max  hesitated  a  moment,  then  resumed  his  place  at  the 
piano,  and,  after  a  pause,  the  three  grave  notes  with  which 
Rachmaninoff's  wonderful  "Prelude"  opens,  broke  the  si- 
lence. 

It  was  speedily  evident  that  Errington  was  a  musician 


DIANA  SINGS  83 

of  no  mean  order;  indeed  many  a  professional  reputation 
has  been  based  on  a  less  solid  foundation.  The  Rach- 
maninoif  was  followed  by  Chopin,  Tchaikowsky,  Debussy, 
and  others  of  the  modern  school,  and  when  finally  he  dropped 
his  hands  from  the  piano,  laughingly  declaring  that  he  must 
be  thinking  of  taking  his  departure  before  he  played  them 
all  to  sleep,  Joan  burst  out  bluntly: — 

"We  understood  you  were  a  dramatist,  Mr.  Errington. 
It  seems  to  me  you  have  missed  your  vocation." 

Every  one  laughed. 

"Rather  a  two-edged  compliment,  I'm  afraid,  Joan," 
chuckled  Stair  delightfully. 

Joan  blushed,  overcome  with  confusion,  and  remained 
depressed  until  Errington,  on  the  point  of  leaving,  reas- 
sured her  good-humouredly. 

"Don't  brood  over  your  fathers  unkind  references  to  two- 
edged  compliments,  Miss  Stair.  I  entirely  decline  to  see  any 
but  one  meaning  to  your  speech — and  that  a  very  pleasant 
one." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  Rector  and  Diana,  holding  the 
latter's  hand  an  instant  longer  than  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, to  ask,  rather  low: — 

"Is  it  peace,  then  ?" 

But  the  softening  spell  of  the  music  was  broken,  and  Di- 
ana felt  her  resentment  against  him  rise  up  anew. 

Silently  she  withdrew  her  hand,  refusing  him  an  answer, 
defying  him  with  a  courage  born  of  the  near  neighbourhood 
of  the  Rector  and  Joan,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  hum 
of  his  motor  could  be  heard  as  it  sped  away  down  the  drive. 

Diana  lay  long  awake  that  night,  her  thoughts  centred 
round  the  man  who  had  come  so  strangely  into  her  life. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  been  forced  thither  by  a  resistless 
fate  which  there  was  no  eluding — for,  on  his  own  confes- 
sion, he  had  deliberately  sought  to  avoid  meeting  her  again. 

His  whole  attitude  was  utterly  incomprehensible — a  study 
of  violently  opposing  contrasts.  Diana  felt  bruised  and 


84  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

shaken  by  the  fierce  contradictions  of  his  moods,  the  temper- 
amental heat  and  ice  which  he  had  meted  out  to  her.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  were  fighting  against  the  attraction  she  had 
for  him,  prepared  to  contest  every  inch  of  ground — discount- 
ing each  look  and  word  wrung  from  him  in  some  moment  of 
emotion  by  the  mocking  raillery  with  which  he  followed 
it  up. 

More  than  once  he  had  hinted  at  some  barrier,  spoken  of 
a  shadow  that  dogged  his  steps,  as  if  complete  freedom  of 
action  were  denied  him.  Could  it  be — was  it  conceivable, 
that  he  was  already  married?  And  at  the  thought  Diana 
hid  hot  cheeks  against  her  pillow,  living  over  again  that 
moment  in  the  car — that  moment  which  had  suddenly  called 
into  being  emotions  before  whose  overmastering  possibilities 
she  trembled. 

At  length,  mentally  and  physically  weary,  she  dropped 
into  an  uneasy  slumber,  vaguely  wondering  what  the  mor- 
row would  bring  forth. 

It  brought  the  unexpected  news  that  the  occupants  of 
Red  Gables  had  suddenly  left  for  London  by  the  morning 
train. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MBS.  LAWBEUCE'S  HOSPITALITY 

Officer's  Widow  offers  hospitality  to  students  and 
( professional  women.  Excellent  cuisine;  man-servant; 
moderate  terms.  Apply:  Mrs,  L.,  24  Brutton  Square,  N.  W." 

So  ran  the  advertisement  which  Mrs.  Lawrence  period- 
ically inserted  in  one  of  the  leading  London  dailies.  She 
was  well-pleased  with  the  wording  of  it,  considering  that 
it  combined  both  veracity  and  attractiveness — two  things 
which  do  not  invariably  run  smoothly  in  conjunction  with 
each  other.  , 

The  opening  phrase  had  reference  to  the  fact  that  her 
husband,  the  defunct  major,  had  been  an  army  doctor,  and 
the  word  hospitality  pleasantly  suggested  the  idea  of  a  home 
from  home,  whilst  the  afterthought  conveyed  by  the  moder- 
ate terms  delicately  indicated  that  the  hospitality  was  not 
entirely  of  a  gratuitous  nature.  The  man-servant,  on  closer 
inspection,  resolved  himself  into  a  French-Swiss  waiter, 
whose  agility  and  condition  were  such  that  he  could  negoti- 
ate the  whole  ninety  stairs  of  the  house,  three  at  a  time, 
without  once  pausing  for  breath  till  he  reached  the  top. 

Little  Miss  Bunting,  the  lady-help,  who  lived  with  Mrs. 
Lawrence  on  the  understanding  that  she  gave  "assistance  in 
light  household  duties  in  return  for  hospitality,"  was  not 
quite  so  nimble  as  Henri,  the  waiter,  and  often  found  her 
heart  beating  quite  uncomfortably  fast  by  the  time  she  had 
climbed  the  ninety  stairs  to  the  little  cupboard  of  a  room 
which  Mrs.  Lawrence's  conception  of  hospitality  allotted 
for  her  use.  She  did  the  work  of  two  servants  and  ate 

85 


86  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

rather  less  than  one,  and,  seeing  that  she  received  no  wages 
and  was  incurably  conscientious,  Mrs.  Lawrence  found  the 
arrangement  eminently  satisfactory.  Possibly  Miss  Bunting 
herself  regarded  the  matter  with  somewhat  less  enthusiasm, 
but  she  was  a  plucky  little  person  and  made  no  complaint. 
As  she  wrote  to  her  invalid  mother,  shortly  after  taking  up 
her  duties  at  Brutton  Square:  "After  all,  dearest  of  little 
mothers,  I  have  a  roof  over  my  head  and  food  to  eat,  and 
I'm  not  costing  you  anything  except  a  few  pounds  for  my 
clothes.  And  perhaps  when  I  leave  here,  if  Mrs.  Lawrence 
gives  me  a  good  reference,  I  shall  be  able  to  get  a  situation 
with  a  salary  attached  to  it." 

So  Miss  Bunting  stuck  to  her  guns  and  spent  her  days 
in  supplementing  the  deficiencies  of  careless  servants, 
smoothing  the  path  of  the  boarders,  and  generally  enabling 
Mrs.  Lawrence  to  devote  much  more  time  to  what  she  termed 
her  "social  life"  than  would  otherwise  have  been  the  case. 

The  boarders  usually  numbered  anything  from  twelve  to 
fifteen — all  of  the  gentler  sex — and  were  composed  chiefly 
of  students  at  one  or  other  of  the  London  schools  of  art  or 
music,  together  with  a  sprinkling  of  visiting  teachers  of 
various  kinds,  and  one  or  two  young  professional  musicians 
whose  earnings  did  not  yet  warrant  their  launching  out  into 
the  independence  of  flat  life.  This  meant  that  three  times 
a  year,  when  the  schools  closed  for  their  regular  vacations, 
a  general  exodus  took  place  from  24  Brutton  Square,  and 
Mrs.  Lawrence  was  happily  enabled  to  go  away  and  visit  her 
friends,  leaving  the  conscientious  Miss  Bunting  to  look  after 
the  reduced  establishment  and  cater  for  the  one  or  two  re- 
maining boarders  who  were  not  released  by  regular  holi- 
days. It  was  an  admirable  arrangement,  profitable  with- 
out being  too  exigeant. 

At  the  end  of  each  vacation  Mrs.  Lawrence  always  sum- 
moned Miss  Bunting  to  her  presence  and  ran  through  the 
list  of  boarders  for  the  coming  term,  noting  their  various  re- 
quirements. She  was  thus  occupied  one  afternoon  towards 


MRS.  LAWRENCE'S  HOSPITALITY  87 

the  end  of  April.  The  spring  sunshine  poured  in  through 
the  windows,  lending  an  added  cheerfulness  of  aspect  to  the 
rooms  of  the  tall  London  house  that  made  them  appear 
worth  quite  five  shillings  a  week  more  than  was  actually 
charged  for  them,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  smiled,  well  satisfied. 

She  was  a  handsome  woman,  still  in  the  early  forties,  and 
the  word  "stylish"  inevitably  leaped  to  one's  mind  at  the 
sight  of  her  full,  well-corseted  figure,  fashionable  raiment, 
and  carefully  coiffured  hair.  There  was  nothing  whatever 
of  the  hoarding-house  keeper  about  her;  in  fact,  at  first 
sight,  she  rather  gave  the  impression  of  a  pleasant,  sociable 
woman  who,  having  a  house  somewhat  larger  than  she 
needed  for  her  own  requirements,  accepted  a  few  paying 
guests  to  keep  the  rooms  aired. 

This  was  just  the  impression  she  wished  to  convey,  and 
it  was  usually  some  considerable  time  before  her  boarders 
grasped  the  fact  that  they  were  dealing  with  a  thoroughly 
shrewd,  calculating  business  woman,  who  was  bent  on  mak- 
ing every  penny  out  of  them  that  she  could,  compatibly  with 
running  the  house  on  such  lines  as  would  ensure  its  an- 
swering to  the  advertised  description. 

"I'm  glad  it's  a  sunny  day,"  she  remarked  to  Miss  Bunt- 
ing: "First  impressions  are  everything,  and  that  pupil  of 
Signor  Baroni's,  Miss  Quentin,  arrives  to-day.  I  hope  her 
rooms  are  quite  ready?" 

"Quite,  Mrs.  Lawrence,"  replied  the  lady-help.  "I  put 
a  few  flowers  in  the  vases  just  to  make  it  look  a  little  home- 
like." 

"Very  thoughtful  of  you,  Miss  Bunting,"  Mrs.  Lawrence 
returned  graciously.  "Miss  Quentin's  is  rather  a  special 
case.  To  begin  with,  she  has  engaged  a  private  sitting-room, 
and  in  addition  to  that  she  was  recommended  to  come  here 
by  Signor  Baroni  himself." 

The  good  word  of  a  teacher  of  such  standing  as  Baroni 
was  a  matter  of  the  first  importance  to  a  lady  offering  a 
home  from  home  to  musical  students,  though  possibly  had 


88  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Mrs.  Lawrence  heard  the  exact  form  taken  by  Baroni's 
recommendation  she  might  have  felt  less  elated. 

"The  Lawrence  woman  is  a  bit  of  a  shark,  my  dear/'  he 
had  told  Diana,  when  she  had  explained  that,  owing  to  the 
retirement  from  business  of  her  former  landlady,  she  would 
be  compelled  •  after  Easter  to  seek  fresh  rooms.  "But  she 
caters  specially  for  musical  students,  and  as  she  is  there- 
fore obliged  to  keep  the  schools  pleased,  she  feeds  her  board- 
ers, on  the  whole,  better  than  do  most  of  her  species.  And 
remember,  my  dear  Mees  Quentin,  that  good  food,  and  plenty 
of  good  food,  means  —  voice." 

So  Diana  had  nodded  and  written  to  Mrs.  Lawrence  to 
ask  if  a  bed-room  and  sitting-room  opening  one  into  the 
other  could  be  at  her  disposal,  receiving  an  affirmative  re- 


"Regarding  coals,  Miss  Bunting,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Lajv- 
rence  thoughtfully,  "I  told  Miss  Quentin  that  the  charge 
would  be  sixpence  per  scuttle."  (This  was  in  pre-war 
times,  it  must  be  remembered,  and  the  scuttles  were  of  pain- 
fully meagre  proportions.)  "It  might  be  as  well  to  put 
that  large  coal-box  in  her  room  —  you  know  the  one  I  mean 
—  and  make  the  charge  eightpence." 

The  box  in  question  was  certainly  of  imposing  exterior 
proportions,  but  its  tin  lining  was  of  a  quite  different  do- 
mestic period  and  made  no  pretensions  as  to  fitting.  It  lay 
loosely  inside  its  sham  mahogany  casing  like  the  shrivelled 
kernel  of  a  nut  in  its  shell. 

"The  big  coal-scuttle  really  doesn't  hold  twopennyworth 
more  coal  than  the  others,"  observed  Miss  Bunting  tenta- 
tively. 

A  dull  flush  mounted  to  Mrs.  Lawrence's  cheek.  She 
liked  the  prospect  of  screwing1  an  extra  twopence  out  of  one 
of  her  boarders,  but  she  hated  having  the  fact  so  clearly 
pointed  out  to  her.  There  were  times  when  she  found  Miss 
Bunting's  conscientiousness  something  of  a  trial. 

"It's  a  much  larger  box,"  she  protested  sharply. 


MRS.  LAWRENCE'S  HOSPITALITY  89 

"Yes.  I  know  it  is — outside.  But  the  lining  only  holds 
two  more  knobs  than  the  sixpenny  ones." 

Mrs.  Lawrence  frowned. 

"Do  I  understand  that  you — you  actually  measured  the 
amount  it  contains?"  she  asked,  with  bitterness. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Miss  Bunting  valiantly.  "And  compared 
it  with  the  others.  It  was  when  you  told  me  to  put  the 
eightpenny  scuttle  in  Miss  Jenkins'  room.  She  complained 
at  once." 

"Then  you  exceeded  your  duties,  Miss  Bunting.  You 
should  have  referred  Miss  Jenkins  to  me." 

Miss  Bunting  made  no  reply.  She  had  acted  precisely 
in  the  way  suggested,  but  Miss  Jenkins,  a  young  artrstudent 
of  independent  opinions,  had  flatly  declined  to  be  "referred" 
to  Mrs,  Lawrence. 

"It's  not  the  least  use,  Bunty  dear,"  she  had  said.  "I'm 
not  going  to  have  half  an  hour's  acrimonious  conversation 
with  Mrs.  Lawrence  on  the  subject  of  twopennyworth  of 
coal.  At  the  same  time  I  haven't  the  remotest  intention  of 
paying  twopence  extra  for  those  two  lumps  of  excess  lug- 
gage, so  to  speak.  So  you  can  just  trot  that  sarcophagus 
away,  like  the  darling  you  are,  and  bring  me  back  my  six- 
penny scuttle  again." 

And  little  Miss  Bunting,  in  her  capacity  of  buffer  state 
between  Mrs.  Lawrence  and  her  boarders,  had  obeyed  and 
said  nothing  more  about  the  matter. 

"I  have  to  go  out  now,"  continued  Mrs.  Lawrence,  after 
a  pause  pregnant  with  rebuke.  "You  will  receive  Miss 
Quentin  on  her  arrival  and  attend  to  her  comfort.  And  put 
the  large  coal-box  in  her  sitting-room  as  I  directed,"  she 
added  firmly. 

So  it  came  about  that  when,  half  an  hour  later,  a  taxi- 
cab  buzzed  up  to  the  door  of  No.  24,  with  Diana  and  a  large 
quantity  of  luggage  on  board,  the  former  found  herself  met 
in  the  hall  by  a  cheerful  little  person  with  pretty  brown 
eyes  and  a  friendly  smile  to  whom  she  took  an  instant  liking. 


90  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Misa  Bunting  escorted  Diana  up  to  her  rooms  on  the  sec- 
ond floor,  while  Henri  brought  up  the  rear,  staggering  man- 
fully beneath  the  weight  of  Miss  Quentin's  trunk. 

A  cheerful  fire  was  blazing  in  the  grate,  and  that,  to- 
gether with  the  daffodils  that  gleamed  from  a  bowl  on  the 
table  like  a  splash  of  gold,  gave  the  room  a  pleasant  and 
welcoming  appearance. 

"But,  surely,"  said  Diana  hesitatingly,  "you  are  not  Mrs. 
Lawrence  ?" 

Miss  Bunting  laughed  outright. 

"Oh,  dear  no,"  she  answered.  "Mrs.  Lawrence  is  out, 
and  she  asked  me  to  see  that  you  had  everything  you  wanted. 
I'm  the  lady-help,  you  know." 

Diana  regarded  her  commiseratingly.  She  seemed  such 
a  jolly,  bright  little  thing  to  be  occupying  that  anomalous 
position. 

"Oh,  are  you?  Then  it  was  you" — with  a  sudden  in- 
spiration— "who  put  these  lovely  daffodils  here,  wasn't  it? 
.  .  .  Thank  you  so  much  for  thinking  of  it — it  was  kind 
of  you."  And  she  held  out  her  hand  with  the  frank  charm 
of  manner  which  invariably  turned  Diana's  acquaintances 
into  friends  inside  ten  minutes. 

Little  Miss  Bunting  flushed  delightedly,  and  from  that 
moment  onward  became  one  of  the  new  boarder's  most  de- 
voted adherents. 

"You'd  like  some  tea,  I  expect,"  she  said  presently.  "Will 
you  have  it  up  here — or  in  the  dining-room  with  the  other 
boarders  in  half  an  hour's  time?" 

"Oh,  up  here,  please.  I  can't  possibly  wait  half  an 
hour." 

"I  ought  to  tell  you,"  Miss  Bunting  continued,  dimpling  a 
little,  "that  it  will  be  sixpence  extra  if  you  have  it  up  here. 
'All  meals  served  in  rooms,  sixpence  extra,' "  she  read  out, 
pointing  to  the  printed  list  of  rules  and  regulations  hanging 
prominently  above  the  chimney-piece. 

Diana  regarded  it  with  amusement 


MRS.  LAWRENCE'S  HOSPITALITY  91 

"They  ought  to  be  written  on  tablets  of  stone  like  the  Ten 
Commandments,"  she  commented  frivolously.  "It  rather 
reminds  me  of  being  at  school  again.  I've  never  lived  in  a 
boarding-house  before,  you  know ;  I  had  rooms  in  the  house 
of  an  old  servant  of  ours.  Well,  here  goes!" — twisting  the 
framed  set  of  rules  round  with  its  face  to  the  wall.  "Now, 
if  I  break  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Persians  I  can't  be 
blamed,  because  I  haven't  read  them." 

Miss  Bunting  privately  thought  that  the  new  boarder, 
recommended  by  so  great  a  personage  as  Signor  Baroni, 
stood  an  excellent  chance  of  being  allowed  a  generous  lati- 
tude as  regards  conforming  to  the  rules  at  No.  24 — provided 
she  paid  her  bills  promptly  and  without  too  careful  a  scru- 
tiny of  the  "extras."  Bunty,  indeed,  retained  few  illusions 
concerning  her  employer,  and  perhaps  this  was  just  as  well 
— for  the  fewer  the  illusions  by  which  you're  handicapped, 
the  fewer  your  disappointments  before  the  journey's  end. 

"You  haven't  told  me  your  name,"  said  Diana,  when  the 
lady-help  reappeared  with  a  small  tea-tray  in  her  hand. 

"Bunting,"  came  the  smiling  reply.  "But  most  of  the 
boarders  call  me  Bunty." 

"I  shall,  too,  may  I  ? — And  oh,  why  haven't  you  brought 
two  cups?  I  wanted  you  to  have  tea  with  me — if  you've 
time,  that  is  ?" 

"If  I  had  brought  a  second  cup,  'Tea,  for  two'  would  have 
been  charged  to  your  account,"  observed  Miss  Bunting. 

"What?"  Diana's  eyes  grew  round  with  astonishment. 
"With  the  same  sized  teapot?" 

The  other  nodded  humorously. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Lawrence's  logic  is  beyond  me,"  pursued 
Diana.  "However,  we'll  obviate  the  difficulty.  I'll  have  tea 
out  of  my  tooth-glass" — glancing  towards  the  washstand  in 
the  adjoining  room  where  that  article,  inverted,  capped  the 
water-bottle — "and  you,  being  the  honoured  guest,  shall  lux- 
uriate in  the  cup." 

Bunty  modestly  protested,  but  Diana  had  her  own  way  in 


$2  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

the  matter,  and  when  finally  the  little  lady-help  went  down- 
stairs to  pour  out  tea  in  the  dining-room  for  the  rest  of  the 
boarders,  it  was  with  that  pleasantly  warm  glow  about  the 
region  of  the  heart  which  the  experience  of  an  unexpected 
kindness  is  prone  to  produce. 

Meanwhile  Diana  busied  herself  unpacking  her  clothes 
and  putting  them  away  in  the  rather  limited  cupboard  ac- 
commodation  provided,  and  in  fixing  up  a  few  pictures,  reck- 
lessly hammering  the  requisite  nails  into  the  walls  in  happy 
disregard  of  Rule  III  of  the  printed  list,  which  emphati- 
cally stated  that:  "No  nails  must  be  driven  into  th&  walls 
without  permission." 

By  the  time  she  had  completed  these  operations  a  dress- 
ing-bell sounded,  and  quickly  exchanging  her  travelling  cos- 
tume for  a  filmy  little  dinner  dress  of  some  soft,  shimmering 
material,  she  sallied  downstairs  in  search  of  the  dining-room. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  met  her  on  the  threshold,  warmly  wel- 
coming, and  conducting  her  to  her  allotted  place  at  the 
lower  end  of  a  long  table,  around  which  were  seated — as  it 
appeared  to  Diana  in  that  first  dizzy  moment  of  arrival — 
dozens  of  young  women  varying  from  twenty  to  thirty  years 
of  age.  In  reality  there  were  but  a  baker's  dozen  of  them, 
and  they  all  painstakingly  abstained  from  glancing  in  her 
direction  lest  they  might  be  thought  guilty  of  rudely  staring 
at  a  newcomer. 

Diana's  vis-a-vis  at  table  was  the  redoubtable  Miss  Jen- 
kins of  coal-box  fame,  and  her  neighbours  on  either  hand 
two  students  of  one  of  the  musical  colleges.  Next  to  Miss 
Jenkins,  Diana  observed  a  vacant  place;  presumably  its 
owner  was  dining  out.  She  also  noticed  that  she  alone  among 
the  boarders  had  attempted  to  make  any  kind  of  evening 
toilet.  The  others  had  "changed"  from  their  workaday 
clothes,  it  is  true,  but  a  light  silk  blouse,  worn  with  a  darker 
skirt,  appeared  to  be  generally  regarded  as  a  sufficient  recog- 
nition of  the  occasion. 

Diana's  near  neighbours  were  at  first  somewhat  tongue- 


MKS.  LAWRENCE'S  HOSPITALITY  93 

tied  with  a  nervous  stiffness  common  to  the  Britisher,  but 
they  thawed  a  little  as  the  meal  progressed,  and  when  the 
musical  students,  Miss  Jones  and  Miss  Allen,  had  elicited 
that  she  was  actually  a  pupil  of  the  great  Baroni,  envy  and 
a  certain  awed  admiration  combined  to  unseal  the  fountains 
of  their  speech. 

Just  as  the  fish  was  being  removed,  the  door  opened  to 
admit  a  tall,  thin  woman,  wearing  outdoor  costume,  who 
passed  quickly  down  the  room  and  took  the  vacant  place  at 
the  table,  murmuring  a  curt  apology  to  Mrs.  Lawrence  on 
her  way.  To  Diana's  astonishment  she  recognised  in  the 
newcomer  Olga  Lermontof,  Baroni's  accompanist. 

"Miss  Lermontof!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  had  no  idea  that 
you  lived  here." 

Miss  Lermontof  nodded  a  brief  greeting. 

"How  d'you  do  ?  Yes,  I've  lived  here  for  some  time.  But 
I  didn't  know  that  you  were  coming.  I  thought  you  had 
rooms  somewhere?" 

"So  I  had.  But  I  was  obliged  to  give  them  up,  and  Sig- 
nor  Baroni  suggested  this  instead." 

"Hope  you'll  like  it,"  returned  Miss  Lermontof  shortly. 
"At  any  rate,  it  has  the  advantage  of  being  only  quarter  of 
an  hour's  walk  from  Grellingham  Place.  I've  just  come 
from  there."  And  with  that  she  relapsed  into  silence. 

Although  Olga  Lermontof  had  frequently  accompanied 
Diana  during  her  lessons  with  Baroni,  the  acquaintance  be- 
tween the  two  had  made  but  small  progress.  There  had 
been  but  little  opportunity  for  conversation  on  those  occa- 
sions, and  Diana,  instinctively  resenting  the  accompanist's 
cool  and  rather  off-hand  manner,  had  never  sought  to  become 
better  acquainted  with  her.  It  was  generally  supposed  that 
she  was  a  Russian,  and  she  was  undoubtedly  a  highly  gifted 
musician,  but  there  was  something  oddly  disagreeable  and 
repellent  about  her  personality.  Whenever  Diana  had  thought 
about  her  at  all,  she  had  mentally  likened  her  to  Ishmael, 
whose  hand  was  against  every  man  and  every  man's  hand 


94  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

against  his.  And  now  she  found  herself  involved  with  this 
strange  woman  in  the  rather  close  intimacy  of  daily  life 
consequent  upon  becoming  fellow-boarders  in  the  same  house. 

Seen  amidst  so  many  strange  faces,  the  familiarity  of 
Olga  Lermontof's  clever  but  rather  forbidding  visage  bred 
a  certain  new  sense  of  comradeship,  and  Diana  made  several 
tentative  efforts  to  draw  her  into  conversation.  The  results 
were  meagre,  however,  the  Russian  confining  herself  to  mon- 
osyllabic answers  until  some  one — one  of  the  musical  stu- 
den,ts — chanced  to  mention  that  she  had  recently  been  to  the 
Premier  Theatre  to  see  Adrienne  de  Gervais  in  a  new  play, 
"The  Grey  Gown,"  which  had  just  been  produced  there. 

It  was  then  that  Miss  Lermontof  apparently  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  the  English  language  contains  further  possibilities 
than  a  bare  "yes"  or  "no." 

"I  consider  Adrienne  de  Gervais  a  most  overrated  ac- 
tress," she  remarked  succinctly. 

A  chorus  of  disagreement  greeted  this  announcement. 

"Why,  only  think  how  quickly  she's  got  on,^  argued  Miss 
Jones.  "No  one  three  years  ago — And  to-day  Max  Erring- 
ton  writes  all  his  plays  round  her." 

"Precisely.  And  it's  easy  enough  to  'create  a  part'  suc- 
cessfully if  that  part  has  been  previously  written  specially 
to  suit  you,"  retorted  Miss  Lermontof  unmoved. 

The  discussion  of  Adrienne  de  Gervais'  merits,  or  de- 
merits, threatened  to  develop  into  a  violent  disagreement, 
and  Diana  was  struck  by  a  certain  personal  acrimony  that 
seemed  to  flavour  Miss  Lermontof's  criticism  of  the  popular 
actress.  Finally,  with  the  idea  of  averting  a  quarrel  between 
the  disputants,  she  mentioned  that  the  actress,  accompanied 
by  her  chaperon,  had  been  staying  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
her  own  home. 

"Mr.  Errington  was  with  them  also,"  she  added. 

"He  usually  is,"  commented  Miss  Lermontof  disagree- 
ably. 


MKS.  LAWRENCE'S  HOSPITALITY  95 

"He's  a  remarkably  fine  pianist,"  said  Diana.  "Do  you 
know  him  personally  at  all?" 

"I've  met  him,"  replied  Olga.  Her  green  eyes  narrowed 
suddenly,  and  she  regarded  Diana  with  a  rather  curious  ex- 
pression on  her  face. 

"Is  he  a  professional  pianist  ?"  pursued  Diana.  She  was 
conscious  of  an  intense  curiosity  concerning  Errington, 
quite  apart  from  the  personal  episodes  which  had  linked 
them  together.  The  man  of  mystery  invariably  exerts  a 
peculiar  fascination  over  the  feminine  mind.  Hence  the  un- 
merited popularity  not  infrequently  enjoyed  by  the  dark, 
saturnine,  brooding  individual  whose  conversation  savours 
of  the  tensely  monosyllabic. 

Olga  Lermontof  paused  a  moment  before  replying  to 
Diana's  query.  The  she  said  briefly : — 

"No.  He's  a  dramatist.  I  shouldn't  allow  myself  to  be- 
come too  interested  in  him  if  I  were  you." 

She  smiled  a  trifle  grimly  at  Diana's  sudden  flush,  and  her 
manner  indicated  that,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  the 
subject  was  closed. 

Diana  felt  an  inward  conviction  that  Miss  Lermontof 
knew  much  more  concerning  Max  Errington  than  she  chose 
to  admit,  and  when  she  fell  asleep  that  night  it  was  to  dream 
that  she  and  Errington  were  trying  to  find  each  other 
through  the  gloom  of  a  thick  fog,  whilst  all  the  time  the 
dark-browed,  sinister  face  of  Olga  Lermontof  kept  appear- 
ing and  disappearing  between  them,  smiling  tauntingly  at 
their  efforts. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  CONTEST  OP  WELLS 

DIANA  was  sitting  in  Baroni's  music-room,  waiting, 
with  more  or  less  patience,  for  a  singing  lesson.  The 
old  maestro  was  in  an  unmistakable  ill-humour  this  morn- 
ing, and  he  had  detained  the  pupil  whose  lesson  preceded  her 
own  far  beyond  the  allotted  time,  storming  at  the  unfortu- 
nate young  man  until  Diana  marvelled  that  the  latter  had 
sufficient  nerve  to  continue  singing  at  all. 

In  a  whirl  of  fury  Baroni  informed  him  that  he  was  ex- 
actly suited  to  be  a  third-rate  music-hall  artiste — the  young 
man,  be  it  said,  was  making  a  special  study  of  oratorio — 
and  that  it  was  profanation  for  any  one  with  so  incalculably 
little  idea  of  the  very  first  principles  of  art  to  attempt  to 
interpret  the  works  of  the  great  masters,  together  with  much 
more  of  a  like  explosive  character.  Finally,  he  dismissed 
him  abruptly  and  turned  to  Diana. 

"Ah — Mees  Quentin."  He  softened  a  little.  He  had  a 
great  affection  for  this  promising  pupil  of  his,  and  welcomed 
her  with  a  smile.  "I  am  seek  of  that  young  man  with  his 
voice  of  an  archangel  and  his  brains  of  a  feesh!  ...  So! 
You  haf  come  back  from  your  visit  to  the  country?  And 
how  goes  it  with  the  voice?" 

"I  expect  I'm  a  bit  rusty  after  my  holiday,"  she  replied 
diplomatically,  fondly  hoping  to  pave  the  way  for  more 
lenient  treatment  than  had  been  accorded  to  the  luckless 
student  of  oratorio. 

Unfortunately,  however,  it  chanced  to  be  one  of  those 
sharply  chilly  days  to  which  May  occasionally  treats  us. 
Baroni  frankly  detested  cold  weather — it  upset  both  his 

96 


A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS  97 

nerves  and  his  temper — and  Diana  speedily  realised  that 
no  excuses  would  avail  to  smooth  her  path  on  this  occasion. 

"Scales,"  commanded  Baroni,  and  struck  a  chord. 

She  began  to  sing  obediently,  but  at  the  end  of  the  third 
scale  he  stopped  her. 

"Bah!  It  sounds  like  an  elephant  coming  downstairs! 
Be-r-r-rump  .  .  .  be-r-r-rump  .  .  .  be-r-r-rump  .  .  .br-r-rum! 
Do  not,  please,  sing  as  an  elephant  walks." 

Diana  coloured  and  tried  again,  but  without  marked  suc- 
cess. She  was  genuinely  out  of  practice,  and  the  nervous- 
ness with  which  Baroni's  obvious  ill-humour  inspired  her 
did  not  mend  matters. 

"But  what  haf  you  been  doing  during  the  holidays?"  ex- 
claimed the  maestro  at  last,  his  odd,  husky  voice  fierce  with 
annoyance.  "There  is  no  ease — -no  flexibility.  You  are  aa 
stiff  as  a  rusty  hinge.  Ach!  But  you  will  haf  to  work — 
not  play  any  more." 

He  frowned  portentously,  then  with  a  swift  change  to  a 
more  reasonable  mood,  he  continued: — 

"Let  us  haf  some  songs — Saint-Saens'  Amour,  viens  aider. 
Perhaps  that  will  wake  you  up,  hein?" 

Instead,  it  carried  Diana  swiftly  back  to  the  Rectory  at 
Crailing,  to  the  evening  when  she  had  sung  this  very  song 
to  Max  Errington,  with  the  unhappy  Joan  stumbling  through 
the  accompaniment  She  began  to  sing,  her  mind  occupied 
with  quite  other  matters  than  Delilah's  passion  of  vengeance, 
and  her  face  expressive  of  nothing  more  stirring  than  a 
gentle  reminiscence.  Baroni  stopped  abruptly  and  placed  a 
big  mirror  in  front  of  her. 

"Please  to  look  at  your  face,  Mees  Quentin,"  he  said 
scathingly.  "It  is  as  wooden  as  your  singing." 

He  was  a  confirmed  advocate  of  the  importance  of  facial 
expression  in  a  singer,  and  Diana's  vague,  abstracted  look 
was  rapidly  raising  his  ire.  Recalled  by  the  biting  scorn 
in  his  tones,  she  made  a  gallant  effort  to  throw  herself  more 
effectually  into  the  song,  but  the  memory  of  Errington's 


98  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

grave,  intent  face,  as  he  had  sat  listening  to  her  that  night, 
kept  coming  betwixt  her  and  the  meaning  of  the  music — and 
the  result  was  even  more  unpromising  than  before. 

In  another  moment  Baroni  was  on  his  feet,  literally  danc- 
ing with  rage. 

"But  do  you  then  call  yourself  an  artiste?"  he  broke  out 
furiously.  "Why  has  the  good  God  given  you  eyes  and  a 
mouth?  That  they  may  express  nothing — nothing  at  all? 
Bah !  You  haf  the  face  of  a  gootta-per-r-rcha  doll !" 

And  snatching  up  the  music  from  the  piano  in  an  un- 
controllable burst  of  fury,  he  flung  it  straight  at  her,  and  the 
two  of  them  stood  glaring  at  each  other  for  a  few  moments 
in  silence.  Then  Baroni  pointed  to  the  song,  lying  open 
on  the  floor  between  them,  and  said  explosively: — 

"Pick  that  up." 

Diana  regarded  him  coolly,  her  small  face  set  like  a 
flint 

"No."    She  fairly  threw  the  negative  at  him. 

He  stared  at  her — he  was  accustomed  to  more  docile  pupils 
— and  the  two  girls  who  had  remained  in  the  room  to  listen 
to  the  lessons  following  their  own  huddled  together  with 
scared  faces.  The  maestro  in  a  royal  rage  was  ever,  in  their 
opinion,  to  be  regarded  from  much  the  same  viewpoint  as  a 
thunderbolt,  and  that  any  one  of  his  pupils  should  dare  to 
defy  him  was  unheard-of.  In  the  same  situation  as  that  in 
which  Diana  found  herself,  either  of  the  two  girls  in  ques- 
tion would  have  meekly  picked  up  the  music  and,  dissolving 
into  tears,  made  the  continuance  of  the  lesson  an  impossi- 
bility, only  to  be  bullied  by  the  maestrro  even  more  execrably 
next  time. 

"Pick  that  up,"  repeated  Baroni  stormily. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  retorted  Diana  promptly. 
"You  threw  it  there,  and  you  can  pick  it  up.  I'm  going 
home."  And,  turning  her  back  upon  him,  she  marched  to- 
wards the  door. 


A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS  99 

A  sudden  twinkle  showed  itself  in  Baroni's  eyes.  With 
unaccustomed  celerity  he  pranced  after  her. 

"Come  back,  little  Pepper-pot,  come  back,  then,  and  we 
will  continue  the  lesson." 

Diana  turned  and  stood  hesitating. 

"Who's  going  to  pick  up  that  music  ?"  she  demanded  un- 
flinchingly. 

"Why,  I  will,  thou  most  obstinate  child" — suiting  the 
action  to  the  word.  "Because  it  is  true  that  professors 
should  not  throw  music  at  their  pupils,  no  matter" — mali- 
ciously— "how  stupid  nor  how  dull  they  may  be  at  their 
lesson." 

Diana  flushed,  immediately  repentant. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  acknowledged  frankly.  "I  was  being 
abominably  inattentive;  I  was  thinking  of  something  else." 

The  little  scene  was  characteristic  of  her — unbendingly 
determined  and  obstinate  when  she  thought  she  was  wronged 
and  unjustly  treated,  impulsively  ready  to  ask  pardon  when 
she  saw  herself  at  fault 

Baroni  patted  her  hand  affectionately. 

"See,  my  dear,  I  am  a  cross-grained,  ugly  old  man,  am  I 
not?"  he  said  placidly. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  agreed  Diana,  to  the  awed  amazement  of 
the  other  two  pupils,  at  the  same  time  bestowing  a  radiant 
smile  upon  him. 

Baroni  beamed  back  at  her  benevolently. 

"So !  Thus  we  agree — we  are  at  one,  as  master  and  pupil 
should  be.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

Diana  nodded,  amusement  in  her  eyes. 

"Then,  being  agreed,  we  can  continue  our  lesson.  Imagine 
yourself,  please,  to  be  Delilah,  brooding  on  your  vengeance, 
gloating  over  what  you  are  about  to  accomplish.  Can  you 
not  picture  her  to  yourself — beautiful,  sinister,  like  a  snake 
that  winds  itself  about  the  body" — his  voice  fell  to  a  pene- 
trating whisper — "and,  in  her  heart,  dreaming  of  the  triumph 
that  shall  bring  Samson  at  last  a  captive  to  destruction  ?" 


100  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Something  in  the  tense  excitement  of  his  whispering  tones 
struck  an  answering  chord  within  Diana,  and  oblivious  for 
the  moment  of  all  else  except  Delilah's  passionate  thirst 
for  vengeance,  she  sang  with  her  whole  soul,  so  that  when 
she  ceased,  Baroni,  in  a  sudden  access  of  artistic  fervour, 
leapt  from  his  seat  and  embraced  her  rapturously. 

"Well  done !  That  is  true  art — art  and  intelligence  allied 
to  the  voice  of  gold  which  the  good  God  has  given  you." 

Absorbed  in  the  music,  neither  master  nor  pupil  had  ob- 
served that  during  the  course  of  the  song  the  door  had  been 
softly  unlatched  from  outside  and  held  ajar,  and  now,  just 
as  Diana  was  somewhat  blushingly  extricating  herself  from 
Baroni's  fervent  clasp,  it  was  thrown  open  and  the  unseen 
listener  came  into  the  room. 

Baroni  whirled  round  and  advanced  with  outstretched 
hands,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles. 

"A  Id  bonne  Tieure!  You  haf  come  just  at  a  good  moment, 
Mees  de  Gervais,  to  hear  this  pupil  of  mine  who  will  some 
day  be  one  of  the  world's  great  singers." 

Adrienne  de  Gervais  shook  hands. 

"I've  been  listening,  Baroni.  She  has  a  marvellous  voice. 
But" — looking  at  Diana  pleasantly — "we  are  neighbours, 
surely?  I  have  seen  you  in  Crailing — where  we  have  just 
taken  a  house  called  Red  Gables." 

"Yes,  I  live  at  Crailing,"  replied  Diana,  a  little  shyly. 

"And  I  saw  you  there  one  day — you  were  sitting  in  a 
pony-trap,  waiting  outside  a  cottage,  and  singing  to  your- 
self. I  noticed  the  quality  of  her  voice  then,"  added  Miss 
de  Gervais,  turning  to  the  maestro. 

"Yes,"  said  Baroni,  with  placid  content.    "It  is  superb." 

Adrienne  turned  back  to  Diana  with  a  delightful  smile. 

"Since  we  are  neighbours  in  the  country,  Miss  Quentin, 
we  ought  to  be  friends  in  town.  Won't  you  come  and  see 
,me  one  day  ?" 

Diana  flushed.  She  was  undoubtedly  attracted  by  the 
actress's  charming  personality,  but  beyond  this  lay  the 


A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS  101 

knowledge  that  it  was  more  than  likely  that  at  her  house 
she  might  again  encounter  Errington.  And  though  Diana 
told  herself  that  he  was  nothing  to  her — in  fact,  that  she 
disliked  him  rather  than  otherwise — the  chance  of  meeting 
him  once  more  was  not  to  be  foregone — if  only  for  the  op- 
portunity it  would  give  her  of  showing  him  how  much  she 
disliked  him ! 

"I  should  like  to  come  very  much,"  she  answered. 

"Then  come  and  have  tea  with  me  to-morrow — no,  to- 
morrow I'm  engaged.  Shall  we  say  Thursday?" 

Diana  acquiesced,  and  Miss  de  Gervais  turned  to  Baroni 
with  a  rather  mischievous  smile,  saying  something  in  a 
foreign  tongue  which  Diana  took  to  be  Russian.  Baroni 
replied  in  the  same  language,  frowningly,  and  although  she 
could  not  understand  the  tenor  of  his  answer,  Diana  was 
positive  that  she  caught  her  own  name  and  that  of  Max 
Errington  uttered  in  conjunction  with  each  other. 

It  struck  her  as  an  odd  coincidence  that  Baroni  should  be 
acquainted  both  with  Miss  de  Gervais  and  with  Errington, 
and  at  her  next  lesson  she  ventured  to  comment  on  the 
former's  visit.  Baroni's  answer,  however,  furnished  a  per- 
fectly simple  explanation  of  it 

"Mees  de  Gervais?  Oh,  yes,  she  sings  a  song  in  her  new 
play,  'The  Grey  Gown,'  and  I  haf  always  coached  her  in 
her  songs.  She  has  a  pree-ty  voice — nothing  beeg,  but 
quite  pree-ty." 

Diana  set  forth  on  her  visit  to  Adrienne  with  a  certain 
amount  of  trepidation.  Much  as  she  longed  to  see  Max 
Errington  again,  she  felt  that  the  first  meeting  after  that 
last  episode  of  their  acquaintance  might  well  partake  of  the 
somewhat  doubtful  pleasure  of  skating  on  thin  ice. 

It  was  therefore  not  without  a  feeling  of  relief  that  she 
found  the  actress  and  her  chaperon  the  only  occupants  of 
the  former's  pretty  drawing-room.  They  both  welcomed 
her  cordially. 

"I  have  heard  so  much  about  you,"  said  Mrs.  Adams, 


102  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

pleasantly,  "that  I've  been  longing  to  meet  you,  Miss  Quen- 
tin.  Adrienne  calls  you  the  'girl  with  the  golden  voice,' 
and  I'm  hoping  to  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  sing." 

Diana  was  getting  used  to  having  her  voice  referred  to 
as  something  rather  wonderful;  it  no  longer  embarrassed 
her,  so  she  murmured  an  appropriate  answer  and  the  con- 
versation then  drifted  naturally  to  Crailing  and  to  the  lucky 
chance  which  had  brought  Errington  past  Culver  Point 
the  day  Diana  was  marooned  there,  and  Diana  explained  that 
the  Rector  and  his  daughter  had  intended  calling  upon  the 
occupants  of  Red  Gables,  but  had  been  prevented  by  their 
sudden  departure. 

Adrienne  laughed. 

"Yes,  I  expect  every  one  thought  we  were  quite  mad  to 
run  away  like  that  so  soon  after  our  arrival!  It  was  a 
sudden  idea  of  Mr.  Errington's.  He  declared  he  was  not 
satisfied  about  something  in  the  staging  of  'The  Grey  Gown,' 
and  of  course  we  must  needs  all  rush  up  to  town  to  see  about 
it.  There  wasn't  the  least  necessity,  as  it  turned  out,  but 
when  Max  takes  an  idea  into  his  head  there's  no  stopping 
him." 

"No,"  added  Mrs.  Adams.  "And  the  sheer  cruelty  of 
bustling  an  elderly  person  like  me  from  one  end  of  England 
to  the  other  just  to  suit  his  whims  doesn't  seem  to  move 
him  in  the  slightest." 

She  was  smiling  broadly  as  she  spoke,  and  it  was  evident 
to  Diana  that  to  both  these  women  Max  Errington's  word 
was  law — a  law  they  obeyed,  however,  with  the  utmost 
cheerfulness. 

"But,  of  course,  we  are  coming  back  again,"  pursued  Miss 
de  Gervais.  "I  think  Crailing  is  a  delightful  little  place, 
and  I  am  going  to  regard  Red  Gables  as  a  haven  of  refuge 
from  the  storms  of  professional  life.  So  I  hope" — smilingly 
— "that  the  Rectory  will  call  on  Red  Gables  when  next  we 
are  'in  residence.' " 

The  time  passed  quickly,  and  when  tea  was  disposed  of 


A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS  103 

Adrienne  looked  out  from  amongst  her  songs  one  or  two 
which  were  known  to  Diana,  and  Mrs.  Adams  was  given  the 
opportunity  of  hearing  the  "golden  voice." 

And  then,  just  as  Diana  was  preparing  to  leave,  a  maid 
threw  open  a  door  and  announced: — 

"Mr.  Errington," 

Diana  felt  her  heart  contract  suddenly,  and  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  as  he  greeted  Adrienne  and  Mrs.  Adams,  sent  a 
thrill  through  every  nerve  in  her  body. 

"You  mustn't  go  now."  She  was  vaguely  conscious  that 
Adrienne  was  speaking  to  her.  "Max,  here  is  Miss  Quen- 
tin,  whom  you  gallantly  rescued  from  Culver  Point." 

The  actress  was  dimpling  and  arm!  ing,  a  spice  of  mischief 
in  her  soft  blue  eyes.  She  and  Mrs.  Adams  had  not  omitted 
to  chaff  Errington  about  his  involuntary  knight-errantry, 
and  the  former  had  even  laughingly  declared  it  her  firm  be- 
lief that  his  journey  to  town  the  next  day  partook  more  of 
the  nature  of  flight  than  anything  else.  To  all  of  which 
Errington  had  submitted  composedly,  declining  to  add  any' 
thing  further  to  his  bare  statement  of  the  incident  of  Culver 
Point — mention  of  which  had  been  entailed  by  his  unex- 
pected absence  from  Red  Gables  that  evening. 

He  gave  a  scarcely  perceptible  start  of  surprise  as  his 
eyes  fell  upon  Diana,  but  he  betrayed  no  pleasure  at  seeing 
her  again.  His  face  showed  nothing  beyond  the  polite,  im- 
personal interest  which  any  stranger  might  exhibit 

"I  have  just  missed  the  pleasure  of  hearing  you  sing,  I'm 
afraid,"  he  said,  shaking  hands.  "Have  you  been  back  in 
town  long,  Miss  Quentin?" 

"No,  only  a  few  days,"  she  answered.  "I  had  my  first 
lesson  with  Signor  Baroni  the  other  day,  and  it  was  then 
that  I  met  Miss  de  Gervais." 

"At  Baroni's?"  Diana  intercepted  a  swift  glance  pass 
between  him  and  Adrienne. 

"Yes,"  said  the  latter  quickly.     "I  went  to  rehearse  my 


104  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

song  in  'The  Grey  Gown'  with  him.  He  was  rather  crochety 
that  day,"  she  added,  smiling. 

Diana  smiled  in  sympathy. 

"Well,  if  he  was  crochety  with  you,  Miss  de  Gervais," 
she  observed,  "you  can  perhaps  imagine  what  he  was  like 
tome!" 

"Was  he  so  very  bad  ?"  asked  Adrienne,  laughing.  "Every 
one  says  his  temper  is  diabolical." 

"It  is,"  replied  Diana,  with  conviction. 

"Still,"  broke  in  Errington's  quiet  voice,  "I  should  have 
thought  he  would  have  found  it  somewhat  difficult  to  be  very 
angry  with  Miss  Quentin." 

Diana  fancied  she  detected  the  familiar  flavour  of  irony 
in  the  cool  tones. 

"On  the  contrary,  he  apparently  found  it  perfectly  sim- 
ple," she  retorted  sharply. 

"And  yet,"  interposed  Adrienne,  "from  the  panegyrics 
he  indulged  in  upon  the  subject  of  your  voice  after  you  had 
gone,  I'm  sure  he  thinks  the  world  of  you." 

"Oh,  I'm  just  a  voice  to  him — nothing  more,"  said  Diana. 

"To  be  'just  a  voice'  to  Baroni  means  to  be  the  most  im- 
portant thing  on  earth,"  observed  Errington.  "I  believe 
he  would  imperil  his  immortal  soul  to  give  a  supremely  beau- 
tiful voice  to  the  world." 

"Nonsense,  Max,"  protested  Adrienne.  "You  talk  as  if 
he  were  perfectly  conscienceless." 

"So  he  is,  except  in  so  far  as  art  is  concerned,  and  then 
his  conscience  assumes  the  form  of  sheer  idolatry.  I  be- 
lieve he  would  sacrifice  anything  and  anybody  for  the  sake 
of  it." 

"Well,  it's  to  be  hoped  you're  wrong,"  said  Adrienne, 
smiling,  and  again  Diana, thought  she  detected  a  glance  of 
mutual  understanding  pass  between  the  actress  and  Max 
Errington. 

A  little  uncomfortable  sense  as  of  being  de  trap  invaded 
her.  She  felt  that  for  some  reason  Errington  would  be 


A  CONTEST  OF  WILLS  105 

glad  when  she  had  gone.  Possibly  he  had  come  to  see  Miss 
de  Gervais  about  some  business  matter  in  connection  with 
the  play  he  had  written,  and  was  only  awaiting  her  departure 
to  discuss  it.  He  had  not  appeared  in  the  least  pleased  to 
find  her  there  on  his  arrival,  and  from  that  moment  onward 
the  conversation  had  become  distinctly  laboured. 

She  wished  very  much  that  Miss  de  Gervais  had  not 
pressed  her  to  stay  when  he  came,  and  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity she  rose  to  go.  This  time,  Adrienne  made  no  effort 
to  detain  her,  although  she  asked  her  cordially  to  come  again 
another  day. 

As  Diana  drove  back  in  a  taxi  to  Brutton  Square  she 
was  conscious  of  a  queer  sense  of  disappointment  in  the  out- 
come of  her  meeting  with  Max  Errington.  It  had  been  so 
utterly  different  from  anything  she  had  expected — quite 
commonplace  and  ordinary,  exactly  as  though  they  had  been 
no  more  than  the  most  casual  acquaintances. 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  had  actually  anticipated. 
Certainly,  she  told  herself  irritably,  she  could  not  have 
expected  him  to  have  treated  her  with  marked  warmth  of 
manner  in  the  presence  of  others,  and  therefore  his  be- 
haviour had  been  just  what  the  circumstances  demanded. 
But,  notwithstanding  the  assurance  she  gave  herself  that  this 
was  the  common-sense  view  to  take  of  the  matter,  she  had 
an  instinctive  feeling  that,  even  had  there  been  no  one  else 
to  consider,  Errington's  manner  would  still  have  shown  no 
greater  cordiality.  For  some  reason  he  had  decided  to  lock 
the  door  on  the  past,  and  the  polite  friendly  indifference 
with  which  he  had  treated  her  was  intended  to  indicate 
quite  clearly  the  attitude  he  proposed  to  adopt. 

She  supposed  he  repented  that  brief,  vivid  moment  in 
the  car,  and  wished  her  to  understand  that  it  held  no  sig- 
nificance— that  it  was  merely  a  chance  incident  in  this  world 
where  one  amuses  oneself  as  occasion  offers.  Presumably 
he  feared  that,  not  being  a  woman  of  the  world,  she  might 


106  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

attach  a  deeper  meaning  to  it  than  the  circumstances  war- 
ranted, and  was  anxious  to  set  her  right  on  that  point. 

Her  pride  rose  in  revolt  Olga  Lermontof's  words  re- 
turned to  her  mind  with  fresh  enlightenment :  "I  shouldn't 
allow  myself  to  become  too  interested  in  him,  if  I  were 
you."  Surely  she  had  intended  this  as  a  friendly  warning 
to  Diana  not  to  take  anything  Max  Errington  might  do  or 
say  very  seriously! 

Well,  there  would  be  no  danger  of  that  in  the  future; 
she  had  learned  her  lesson  and  would  take  care  to  profit 
by  it 


CHAPTER  X 

MISS  LEEMONTOF'S  ADVICE 

AS  Diana  entered  the  somewhat  dingy  hall  at  24  Brutton 
Square  on  her  return  from  visiting  Adrienne,  the  first 
person  she  encountered  was  Olga  Lermontof.  She  still  re- 
tained her  dislike  of  the  accompanist  and  was  preparing 
to  pass  by  with  a  casual  remark  upon  the  coldness  of  the 
weather,  when  something  in  the  Russian's  pale,  fatigued 
face  arrested  her. 

"How  frightfully  tired  you  look !"  she  exclaimed,  paus- 
ing on  the  staircase  as  the  two  made  their  way  up  together. 

"I  am,  rather,"  returned  Miss  Lermontof  indifferently. 
"I've  been  playing  accompaniments  all  afternoon,  and  I've 
had  no  tea." 

Diana  hesitated  an  instant,  then  she  said  impulsively — 

"Oh,  do  come  into  my  room  and  let  me  make  you  a 
cup." 

Olga  Lermontof  regarded  her  with  a  faint  surprise. 

"Thanks,"  she  said  in  her  abrupt  way.    "I  will." 

A  cheerful  little  fire  was  burning  in  the  grate,  and  the 
room  presented  a  very  comfortable  and  home-like  appear- 
ance, for  Diana  had  added  a  couple  of  easy-chairs  and  sev- 
eral Liberty  cushions  to  its  somewhat  sparse  furniture.  A 
heavy  curtain,  hung  in  front  of  the  door  to  exclude  draughts, 
gave  an  additional  cosy  touch,  and  fresh  flowers  adorned 
both  chimney-piece  and  table. 

Olga  Lermontof  let  her  long,  lithe  figure  down  into  one 
of  the  easy-chairs  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  while  Diana 
set  the  kettle  on  the  fire  to  boil,  and  produced  from  the 

107 


108  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

depths  of  a  cupboard  a  canister  of  tea  and  a  tin  of  at- 
tractive-looking biscuits. 

"I  often  make  my  own  tea  up  here,"  she  observed.  "I 
detest  having  it  in  that  great  barrack  of  a  dining-room  down- 
stairs. The  bread-and-butter  is  always  so  thick — like  door- 
steps!— and  the  cake  is  very  emphatically  of  the  'plain, 
home-made'  variety." 

Olga  nodded. 

"You  look  very  comfortable  here,"  she  replied.  If  you 
saw  my  tiny  bandbox  of  a  room  on  the  fourth  floor  you'd 
realise  what  a  sybarite  you  are." 

Diana  wondered  a  little  why  Olga  Lermontof  should  need 
to  economise  by  having  such  a  small  room  and  one  so  high 
up.  She  was  invariably  well-dressed — Diana  had  frequently 
caught  glimpses  of  silken  petticoats  and  expensive  shoes — 
and  she  had  not  in  the  least  the  air  of  a  woman  who  is 
accustomed  to  small  means. 

Almost  as  though  she  had  uttered  her  thought  alond, 
Miss  Lermontof  replied  to  it,  smiling  rather  satirically. 

"You're  thinking  I  don't  look  the  part  ?  It's  true  I  haven't 
always  been  so  poor  as  I  am  now.  But  a  lot  of  my  money 
is  invested  in  Ru — abroad,  and  owing  to — to  various  things" 
— she  stammered  a  little — "I  can't  get  hold  of  it  just  at 
present,  so  I'm  dependent  on  what  I  make.  And  an  accom- 
panist doesn't  earn  a  fortune,  you  know.  But  I  can't  quite 
forego  pretty  clothes — I  wasn't  brought  up  that  way.  So  I 
economise  over  my  room." 

Diana  was  rather  touched  by  the  little  confidence;  some- 
how she  didn't  fancy  the  other  had  found  it  very  easy  to 
make,  and  she  liked  her  all  the  better  for  it. 

"No,"  she  agreed,  as  she  poured  out  two  steaming  cups 
of  tea,  "I  suppose  accompanying  doesn't  pay  as  well  as 
some  other  things — the  stage,  for  example.  I  should  think 
Adrienne  de  Gervais  makes  plenty  of  money." 

"She  has  private  means,  I  believe,"  returned  Miss  Ler- 
mentof.  "But,  of  course,  she  gets  an  enormous  salary." 


MISS  LERMONTOFS  ADVICE  109 

She  was  drinking  her  tea  appreciatively,  and  a  little 
colour  had  crept  into  her  cheeks,  although  the  shadows  still 
lay  heavily  beneath  her  light-green  eyes.  They  were  of  a 
curious  translucent  green,  the  more  noticeable  against  the 
contrasting  darkness  of  her  hair  and  brows;  they  reminded 
one  of  the  colour  of  Chinese  jade. 

"I've  just  been  to  tea  with  Miss  de  Gervais,"  volunteered 
Diana,  after  a  pause. 

A  swift  look  of  surprise  crossed  Olga  Lermontof's  face. 

"I  didn't  know  you  had  met  her,"  she  said  slowly. 

"Yes,  we  met  at  Signor  Baroni's  the  other  day.  She 
came  in  during  my  lesson.  I  believe  I  told  you  she  had 
taken  a  house  at  Crailing,  so  that  at  home  we  are  neighbours, 
you  see." 

Miss  Lermontof  consumed  a  biscuit  in  silence.  Then  she 
said  abruptly: — 

"Miss  Quentin,  I  know  you  don't  like  me,  but — well,  I 
have  an  odd  sort  of  wish  to  do  you  a  good  turn.  You  had 
better  have  nothing  to  do  with  Adrienne  de  Gervais." 

Diana  stared  at  her  in  undisguised  amazement,  the  quick 
colour  rushing  into  her  face  as  it  always  did  when  she  was 
startled  or  surprised. 

"But — but  why?"   she  stammered. 

"I  can't  tell  you  why.  Only  take  my  advice  and  leave 
her  alone." 

"But  I  thought  her  delightful,"  protested  Diana.  "And" 
— wistfully — "I  haven't  many  friends  in  London." 

"Miss  de  Gervais  isn't  quite  all  she  seems.  And  your  art 
should  be  your  friend — you  don't  need  any  other." 

Diana  laughed. 

"You  talk  like  old  Baroni  himself !  But  indeed  I  do  want 
friends — I  haven't  nearly  reached  the  stage  when  art  can 
take  the  place  of  nice  human  people." 

Miss  Lermontof  regarded  her  dispassionately. 

"That's  only  because  you're  young — horribly  young  and 
warm-hearted." 


110  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"You  talk  as  if  you  yourself  were  a  near  relation  of 
Methuselah !" — laughing. 

"I'm  thirty-five/'  returned  Olga.  "And  that's  old  enough 
to  know  that  nine-tenths  of  your  'nice  human  people'  are 
self-seeking  vampires  living  on  the  generosity  of  the  other 
tenth.  Besides,  you  have  only  to  wait  till  you  come  out 
professionally  and  you  can  have  as  many  so-called  friends 
as  you  choose.  You'll  scarcely  need  to  lift  your  little  finger 
and  they'll  come  flocking  round  you.  I  don't  think"- 
looking  at  her  speculatively — "that  you've  any  conception 
what  your  voice  is  going  to  do  for  you.  You  see,  it  isn't 
just  an  ordinary  good  voice — it's  one  of  the  exceptional 
voices  that  are  only  vouchsafed  once  or  twice  in  a  century." 

"Still,  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  a  few  friends — 
now.  My  friend,  I  mean — not  just  the  friends  of  my  voice !" 
— with  a  smile. 

"Well,  don't  include  Miss  de  Gervais  in  the  number — or 
Max  Errington  either." 

She  watched  Diana's  sudden  flush,  and  shrugging  her 
shoulders,  added  sardonically: — 

"I  suppose,  however,  it's  useless  to  try  and  stop  a  marble 
rolling  down  hill.  .  .  .  Well,  later  on,  remember  that  I 
warned  you." 

Diana  stared  into  the  fire  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Then 
she  asked  with  apparent  irrelevance : — 

"Is  Mr.  Errington  married  ?" 

"He  is  not."  Diana's  heart  suddenly  sang  within  her. 
"Nor,"  continued  Miss  Lermontof  keenly,  "is  there  any 
likelihood  of  his  ever  marrying." 

The  song  broke  off  abruptly. 

"I  should  have  thought,"  said  Diana  slowly,  "that  he 
was  just  the  kind  of  man  who  would  marry.  He  is" — with 
a  little  effort— "very  delightful." 

Miss  Lermontof  got  up  to  go. 

"You  have  a  saying  in  England:  All  is  not  gold  ihat  glit- 
ters. It  is  very  good,  sense,"  she  observed. 


MISS  LERMONTOFS  ADVICE  111 

"Do  you  mean" — Diana's  eyes  were  suddenly  apprehen- 
sive— "do  you  mean  that  he  has  done  anything  wrong — • 
dishonourable  ?" 

"I  think,"  replied  Olga  Lermontof  incisively,  "that  it 
would  be  very  dishonourable  of  him  if  he  tried  to — to  make 
you  care  for  him." 

She  moved  towards  the  door  as  she  spoke,  and  Diana  fol- 
lowed her. 

"But  why — why  do  you  tell  me  this  ?"  she  faltered. 

The  Russian's  queer  green  eyes  held  an  odd  expression 
as  she  answered : — 

"Perhaps  it's  because  I  like  you  very  much  better  than 
you  do  ma  You're  one  of  the  few  genuine  warm-hearted 
people  I've  met — and  I  don't  want  you  to  be  unhappy. 
Good-bye,"  she  added  carelessly,  "thank  you  for  my  tea," 

The  door  closed  behind  her,  and  Diana,  returning  to  her 
seat  by  the  fire,  sat  staring  into  the  flames,  puzzling  over 
what  she  had  heard. 

Miss  Lermontof's  curious  warning  had  frightened  her  a 
little.  She  apparently  possessed  some  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  affairs  both  of  Max  Errington  and  Adrienne  de  Ger- 
vais,  and  what  she  knew  did  not  appear  to  be  very  favour- 
able to  either  of  them. 

Diana  had  intuitively  felt  from  the  very  beginning  of 
her  acquaintance  with  Errington  that  there  was  something 
secret,  something  hidden,  about  him,  and  in  a  way  this  had 
added  to  her  interest  in  him.  It  had  seized  hold  of  her 
imagination,  kept  him  vividly  before  her  mind  as  nothing 
else  could  have  done,  and  now  Olga  Lermontof  s  strange 
hints  and  innuendos  gave  a  fresh  fillip  to  her  desire  to 
know  in  what  way  Max  Errington  differed  from  his  fel- 
lows. 

"It  would  be  dishonourable  of  him  to  make  you  oare," 
Miss  Lermontof  had  said. 

The  words  seemed  to  ring  in  Diana's  ears,  and  side  by  side 
with  them,  as  though  to  add  a  substance  of  reality,  came 


112  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

the  memory  of  Errington's  own  bitter  exclamation:  "I 
forgot  that  I'm  a  man  barred  out  from  all  that  makes  life 
worth  living!" 

She  felt  as  though  she  had  drawn  near  some  invisible 
web,  of  which  every  now  and  then  a  single  filament  brushed 
against  her — almost  impalpable,  yet  touching  her  with  the 
fleetest  and  lightest  of  contacts. 

During  the  weeks  that  followed,  Diana  became  more  or 
less  an  intimate  at  Adrienne's  house  in  Somervell  Street. 
The  actress  seemed  to  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  her,  and 
although  she  was  several  years  Diana's  senior,  the  difference 
in  age  formed  no  appreciable  stumbling-block  to  the  growth 
of  the  friendship  between  them. 

On  her  part,  Diana  regarded  Adrienne  with  the  enthusias- 
tic devotion  which  an  older  woman — more  especially  if  she 
happens  to  be  very  beautiful  and  occupying  a  somewhat 
unique  position — frequently  inspires  in  one  younger  than 
herself,  and  Olga  Lermontof's  grave  warning  might  just  aa 
well  have  been  uttered  to  the  empty  air.  Diana's  warm- 
hearted, spontaneous  nature  swept  it  aside  with  an  almost 
passionate  loyalty  and  belief  in  her  new-found  friend. 

Once  Miss  Lermontof  had  referred  to  it  rather  disagree- 
ably. 

"So  you've  decided  to  make  a  friend  of  Miss  de  Gervais 
after  all  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes.  And  I  think  you've  misjudged  her  utterly,"  Diana 
warmly  assured  her.  "Of  course,"  she  added,  sensitively 
afraid  that  the  other  might  misconstrue*  her  meaning1,  "I 
know  you  believed  what  you  were  saying,  and  that  you  only 
said  it  out  of  kindness  to  me.  But  you  were  mistaken 
— really  you  were." 

"Humph  J"  The  KuJssian's  eyes  narrowed  until  they 
looked  likeitwo  slits  of  green  fire.  "Humph !  I  was  wrong, 
was  I?  Nevertheless,  I'm  perfectly  sure  that  Adrienne  de 


MISS  LERMONTOFS  ADVICE  113 

Gervais'  past  is  a  closed  book  to  you — although  you  call 
yourself  her  friend!" 

Diana  turned  away  without  reply.  It  was  true — Olga 
Lermontof  had  laid  a  finger  on  the  weak  spot  in  her  friend- 
ship with  Adrienne.  The  latter  never  talked  to  her  of  her 
past  life;  their  mutual  attachment  was  built  solely  around 
the  present,  and  if  by  chance  any  question  of  Diana's  acci- 
dentally probed  into  the  past,  it  was  adroitly  parried.  Even 
of  Adrienne' s  nationality  she  was  in  ignorance,  merely  un- 
derstanding, along  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  that  she  was 
of  French  extraction.  This  assumption  had  probably  been 
founded  in  the  first  instance  upon  her  name,  and  Adrienne 
never  troubled  either  to  confirm  or  contradict  it. 

Mrs.  Adams,  her  companion-chaperon,  always  made  Diana 
especially  welcome  at  the  house  in  Somervell  Street. 

"You  must  come  again  soon,  my  dear,"  she  would  say 
cordially.  "Adrienne  makes  few  friends — and  your  visits 
are  such  a  relaxation  to  her.  The  life  she  leads  is  rather 
a  strain,  you  know." 

At  times  Diana  noticed  a  curious  aloofness  in  her  friend, 
as  though  her  professional  success  occupied  a  position  of 
relatively  small  importance  in  her  estimation,  and  once 
she  had  commented  on  it  half  jokingly. 

"You  don't  seem  to  value  your  laurels  one  bit,"  she  had 
said,  as  Adrienne  contemptuously  tossed  aside  a  newspaper 
containing  a  eulogy  of  her  claims  to  distinction  which  most 
actresses  would  have  carefully  cut  out  and  pasted  into  their 
book  of  critiques. 

"Fame  ?"  Adrienne  had  answered.  "What  is  it  ?  Merely 
the  bubble  of  a  day." 

"Well,"  returned  Diana,  laughing,  "it's  the  aim,  and  ob- 
ject of  a  good  many  people's  lives.  It's  the  bubble  I'm  in 
pursuit  of,  and  if  I  obtain  one  half  the  recognition  you  have 
had,  I  shall  be  very  content." 

Adrienne  regarded  her  musingly. 


114  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"You  will  be  famous  when  the  name  of  Adrienne  de  Ger- 
vais  is  known  no  longer,"  she  said  at  last 

Diana  stared  at  her  in  surprise. 

"But  why?  Even  if  I  should  succeed  within  the  next 
few  years,  you  will  still  be  Adrienne  de  Gervais,  the  famous 
actress." 

Adrienne  smiled  across  at  her. 

"Ah,  I  cannot  tell  you  why,"  she  said  lightly.  "But — I 
think  it  will  be  like  that." 

Her  eyes  gazed  dreamily  into  space,  as  though  she  per- 
ceived some  vision  of  the  future,  but  whether  that  future 
were  of  rose  and  gold  or  only  of  a  dull  grey,  Diana  could 
not  telL 

Of  Max  Errington  she  saw  very  little.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  were  determined  to  avoid  her,  for  she  frequently 
saw  him  leaving  Adrienne's  house  on  a  day  when  she  was 
expected  there — hurrying  away  just  as  she  herself  was  ap- 
proaching from  the  opposite  end  of  the  street. 

Only  once  or  twice,  when  she  had  chanced  to  pay  an  un- 
expected visit,  had  he  come  in  and  found  her  there.  On 
these  occasions  his  manner  had  been  studiously  cold  and 
indifferent,  and  any  effort  on  her  part  towards  establishing 
a  more  friendly  footing  had  been  invariably  checked  by 
some  cruelly  ironical  remark,  which  had  brought  the  blood 
to  her  cheeks  and,  almost,  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  She  re- 
flected grimly  that  Olga  Lennontof's  warning  words  had 
proved  decidedly  superfluous. 

Meanwhile,  she  had  struck  up  a  friendship  with  Erring- 
ton's  private  secretary,  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Jerry 
Leigh,  who  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  Adrienne's  house. 
Jerry  was,  in  truth,  the  sort  of  person  with  whom  it  was 
impossible  to  be  otherwise  than  friendly.  He  was  of  a 
delightful  ugliness,  twenty-five  years  of  age,  penniless  ex- 
cept for  the  salary  he  received  from  Errington,  and  he  pos- 
sessed a  talent  for  friendship  much  as  other  folk  possess  a 
talent  for  music  or  art  or  dancing. 


MISS  LEKMONTOPS  ADVICE  115 

Diana's  first  meeting  with  him  had  occurred  quite  by 
chance.  Both  Adrienne  and  Mrs.  Adams  happened  to  be 
out  one  afternoon  when  she  called,  and  she  was  awaiting 
their  return  when  the  door  of  the  drawing-room  suddenly 
opened  to  admit  a  remarkably  plain  young  man,  who,  on 
seeing  her  ensconced  in  one  of  the  big  arm-chairs,  stood  hesi- 
tating as  though  undecided  whether  to  remain  or  to  take 
refuge  in  instant  flight. 

Adrienne  had  talked  so  much  about  Jerry — of  whom 
she  was  exceedingly  fond — and  had  so  often  described  his 
charming  ugliness  to  Diana  that  the  latter  was  in  no  doubt 
at  all  as  to  whom  the  newcomer  might  be. 

She  nodded  to  him  reassuringly. 

"Don't  run  away,"  she  said  calmly,  "I  don't  bite." 

The  young  man  promptly  closed  the  door  and  advanced 
into  the  room. 

"Don't  you  ?"  he  said  in  relieved  tones.  "Thank  you  for 
telling  me.  One  never  knows." 

"If  you've  come  to  see  Miss  de  Gervais,  I'm  afraid  you 
can't  at  present,  as  she's  out,"  pursued  Diana.  "I'm  wait- 
ing for  her." 

"Then  we  can  wait  together,"  returned  Mr.  Leigh,  with 
an  engaging  smile.  "It  will  be  much  more  amusing  than 
waiting  in  solitude,  won't  it?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you — yet,"  replied  Diana  demurely. 

"I'll  ask  you  again  in  half  an  hour,"  he  returned  un- 
daunted. "I'm  Leigh,  you  know,  Jerry  Leigh,  Errington's 
secretary." 

"I  suppose,  then,  you're  a  very  busy  person?" 

"Well,  pretty  much  so  in  the  mornings  and  sometimes 
up  till  late  at  night,  but  Errington's  a  rattling  good  *boss' 
and  very  often  gives  me  an  'afternoon  out.'  That's  why 
I'm  here  now.  I'm  off  duty  and  Miss  de  Gervais  told  me 
I  might  come  to  tea  whenever  I'm  free.  You  see" — con- 
fidentially— "I've  very  few  friends  in  London," 

"Same  here,"  responded  Diana  shortly. 


116  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"N"o,  not  really?" — with  obvious  satisfaction.  "Then 
•we  ought  to  pal  up  together,  oughtn't  we  ?" 

"Don't  you  want  my  credentials?"  asked  Diana,  smiling. 

"Lord,  no!     One  has  only  to  look  at  you." 

Diana  laughed  outright. 

"That's  quite  the  nicest  compliment  I've  ever  received, 
Mr.  Leigh,"  she  said. 

(It  was  odd  that  while  Errington  always  made  her  feel 
rather  small  and  depressingly  young,  with  Jerry  Leigh  she 
felt  herself  to  be  quite  a  woman  of  the  world. ) 

"It  isn't  a  compliment,"  protested  Jerry  stoutly.  "It's 
just  the  plain,  unvarnished  truth." 

"I'm  afraid  your  'boss'  wouldn't  agree  with  you." 

"Oh,  nonsense!" 

"Indeed  it  isn't.  He  always  treats  me  as  though  I  were 
a  hot  potato,  and  he  were  afraid  of  burning  his  fingers." 

Jerry  roared. 

"Well,  perhaps  he's  got  good  reason." 

Diana  shook  her  head  smilingly. 

"Oh,  no.  It's  not  that.  Mr.  Errington  doesn't  like 
me." 

Jerry  stared  at  her  reflectively. 

"That  couldn't  be  true,"  he  said  at  last,  with  conviction. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  like  him — very  much — either,"  pur- 
sued Diana. 

"You  would  if  you  really  knew  him,"  said  the  boy  eagerly. 
"He's  one  of  the  very  best." 

"He's  rather  a  mysterious  person,  don't  you  think?" 

Jerry  regarded  her  very  straightly. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  returned  bluntly,  "every  man's  a  right  to 
have  his  own  private  affairs." 

Then  there  was  something ! 

Diana  felt  her  heart  beat  a  little  faster.  She  had  thrown 
out  the  remark  as  the  merest  feeler,  and  now  his  own  secre- 
tary, the  man  who  must  be  nearer  to  him  than  any  other, 


MISS  LERMONTOFS  ADVICE  117 

had  given  what  was  tantamount  to  an  acknowledgment  of 
the  fact  that  Errington's  life  held  some  secret. 

"Anyway'' — Jerry  was  speaking  again — "I've  got  good 
reason  to  be  grateful  to  him.  I  was  on  my  uppers  when  he 
happened  along — and  without  any  prospect  of  re-soling.  I'd 
played  the  fool  at  Monte  Carlo,  and,  like  a  brick,  he  offered 
me  the  job  of  private  secretary,  and  I've  been  with  him  ever 
since.  I'd  no  references,  either — he  just  took  me  on  trust." 

"That  was  very  kind  of  him,"  said  Diana  slowly. 

"Kind!  There  isn't  one  man  in  a  hundred  who'll  give 
a  chance  like  that  to  a  young  ass  that's  played  the  goat  as 
I  did." 

"No,"  agreed  Diana,  "But,"  she  added,  rather  low,  "he 
isn't  always  kind." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  subject  of  their 
conversation  entered  the  room.  He  paused  on  the  threshold, 
and  for  an  instant  Diana  could  have  sworn  that  as  his  eyes 
met  her  own  a  sudden  light  of  pleasure  flashed  into  their 
blue  depths,  only  to  be  immediately  replaced  by  his  usual 
look  of  cold  indifference.  He  glanced  round  the  room,  ap- 
parently somewhat  surprised  to  find  Diana  and  his  secretary 
its  sole  occupants. 

"We're  all  here  now  except  our  hostess,"  observed  the 
latter  cheerfully,  following  his  thought. 

"So  it  seems.  I  didn't  know" — looking  across  from  Jerry 
to  Diana  in  a  puzzled  way — "that  you  two  were  acquainted 
with  each  other." 

"We  aren't — at  least,  we  weren't,"  replied  Jerry.  "We 
met  by  chance,  like  two  angels  that  have  made  a  bid  for  the 
same  cloud." 

Errington  smiled  faintly. 

"And  did  you  persuade  your — fellow  angel — to  sing  to 
you?"  he  asked  drily. 

"No.    Does  she  sing?" 

"Does  she  sing?  .  .  .  Jerry,   my  young   and   ignorant 


118  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

friend,    let   me    introduce    you    to    Miss    Diana    Quentin, 
j.1   )) 

"Good  Lord !"  broke  in  Jerry,  his  face  falling.  "Are  you 
Miss  Quentin — the  Miss  Quentin  ?  Of  course  I've  heard  all 
about  you — you're  going  to  be  the  biggest  star  in  the  musical 
firmament — and  here  have  I  been  gassing  away  about  my 
little  affairs  just  as  though  you  were  an  ordinary  mortal  like 
myself." 

Diana  was  beginning  to  laugh  at  the  boy's  nonsense  when 
Errington  cut  in  quietly. 

"Then  you've  been  making  a  great  mistake,  Jerry,"  he 
said.  "Miss  Quentin  doesn't  in  the  least  resemble  ordinary 
mortals.  She  isn't  afflicted  by  like  passions  with  ourselves, 
and  she  doesn't  understand — or  forgive  them." 

The  words,  uttered  as  though  in  jest,  held  an  undercurrent 
of  meaning  for  Diana  that  sent  the  colour  flying  up  under 
her  clear  skin.  There  was  a  bitter  taunt  in  them  that  none 
knew  better  than  she  how  to  interpret. 

She  winced  under  it,  and  a  fierce  resentment  flared  up 
within  her  that  he  should  dare  to  reproach  her — he,  who 
had  been  the  offender  from  first  to  last.  Always,  now,  he 
seemed  to  be  laughing  at  her,  mocking  her.  He  appeared 
an  entirely  different  person  from  the  man  who  had  been  so 
careful  of  her  welfare  during  the  eventful  journey  they  had 
made  together. 

She  lifted  her  head  a  little  defiantly. 

"No,"  she  said,  with  significance.  "I  certainly  don't  un- 
derstand— some  people." 

"Perhaps  it's  just  as  well,"  retorted  Errington,  unmoved. 

Jerry,  sensing  electricity  in  the  atmosphere,  looked  trou- 
bled and  uncomfortable.  He  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  what 
they  were  talking  about,  but  it  was  perfectly  clear  to  him 
that  everything  was  not  quite  as  it  should  be  between  his 
beloved  Max  and  this  new  friend,  this  jolly  little  girl  with 
the  wonderful  eyes — just  like  a  pair  of  stars,  by  Jove! — 
and,  if  rumour  spoke  truly,  the  even  more  wonderful  voice. 


MISS  LERMONTOFS  ADVICE  119 

Bashfully  murmuring  something  about  "going  down  to 
see  if  Miss  de  Gervais  had  come  in  yet,"  he  bolted  out  of  the 
room,  leaving  Max  and  Diana  alone  together. 

Suddenly  she  turned  and  faced  him. 

"Why — why  are  you  always  so  unkind  to  me  ?"  she  burst 
out,  a  little  breathlessly. 

He  lifted  his  brows. 

"I?  .  .  .  My  dear  Miss  Quentin,  I  have  no  right  to  be 
either  kind — or  unkind — to  you.  That  is  surely  the  privi- 
lege of  friends.  And  you  showed  me  quite  clearly,  down  at 
Crailing,  that  you  did  not  intend  to  admit  me  to  your 
friendship." 

"I  didn't,"  she  exclaimed,  and  rushed  on  desperately. 
"Was  it  likely  that  I  should  feel  anything  but  gratitude — 
and  liking  for  any  one  who  had  done  as  much  for  me  as 
you  had  ?" 

"You  forget,"  he  said  quietly.  "Afterwards — I  trans- 
gressed. And  you  let  me  see  that  the  transgression  had 
wiped  out  my  meritorious  deeds — completely.  It  was  quite 
the  best  thing  that  could  happen,"  he  added  hastily,  aa  she 
would  have  spoken.  "I  had  no  right,  less  right  than  any 
man  on  earth,  to  do — what  I  did.  I  abide  by  your  decision." 

The  last  words  came  slowly,  meaningly.  He  was  politely 
telling  her  that  any  overtures  of  friendship  would  be  re- 
jected. 

Diana's  pride  lay  in  the  dust,  but  she  was  determined 
he  should  not  know  it.  With  her  head  held  high,  she  said 


"I  don't  think  I'll  wait  any  longer  for  Adrienne.  Will 
you  tell  her,  please,  that  I've  gone  back  to  Brutton  Square  ?" 

"Brutton  Square?"  he  repeated  swiftly.  "Do  you  live 
there?" 

"Yes.    Have  you  any  objection  ?" 

He  disregarded  her  mocking  query  and  continued: — 

"A  Miss  Lermontof  lives  there.     Is  she;  by  any  chance, 


120  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

a  friend  of  yours  ?"  There  seemed  a  hint  of  disapproval  in 
his  voice,  and  Diana  countered  with  another  question. 

"Why  ?    Do  you  think  I  ought  not  to  be  friends  with  her  ?" 

"I  ?  Oh,  I  don't  think  about  it  at  all"— with  a  little  half- 
foreign  shrug  of  his  shoulders.  "Miss  Quentin's  choice  of 
friends  is  no  concern  of  mine." 

Unbidden  tears  leaped  into  Diana's  eyes  at  the  cold  sa- 
tirical tones.  Surely,  surely  he  had  hurt  her  enough  for 
one  day!  Without  a  word  she  turned  and  made  her  way 
blindly  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs.  In  the  hall 
she  almost  ran  into  Jerry's  arms. 

"Oh,  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  in  tones  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  mustn't  wait  any  longer  for  Adrienne. 
I  have  some  work  to  do  when  I  get  back." 

Her  voice  shook  a  little,  and  Jerry,  giving  her  a  swift 
glance,  could  see  that  her  lashes  were  wet  and  her  eyes 
misty  with  tears. 

"The  brute!"  he  ejaculated  mentally.  "What's  he  done 
to  her?" 

Aloud  he  merely  said : — 

"Will  you  have  a  taxi  ?" 

She  nodded,  and  hailing  one  that  chanced  to  be  passing, 
he  put  her  carefully  into  it. 

"And — and  I  say,"  he  said  anxiously.  "You  didn't  mind 
my  talking  to  you  this  afternoon,  did  you,  Miss  Quentin? 
I  made  'rather  free,'  as  the  servants  say." 

"No,  of  course  I  didn't  mind,"  she  replied  warmly,  her 
spirits  rising  a  little.  He  was  such  a  nice  boy — the  sort  of 
boy  one  could  be  pals  with.  "You  must  come  and  see  me 
at  Brutton  Square.  Come  to  tea  one  day,  will  you  ?" 

"Wvn't  If"  he  said  heartily.  "Good-bye."  And  the  taxi 
swept  away  down  the  street. 

Jerry  returned  to  the  drawing-room  to  find  Errington  star- 
ing moodily  out  of  the  window. 

"I  say,  Max,"  he  said,  affectionately  linking  his  arm  in 


MISS  LERMONTOFS  ADVICE  121 

that  of  the  older  man.  "What  had  you  been  saying  to  upset 
that  dear  little  person  ?" 

"I  ?" 

"Yes.     She  was — crying." 

Jerry  felt  the  arm  against  his  own  twitch,  and  continued 
relentlessly : — 

"I  believe  you've  been  snubbing  her.  You  know,  old  man, 
you  have  a  sort  of  horribly  lordly,  touch-me-not  air  about 
you  when  you  choose.  But  I  don't  see  why  you  should 
choose  with  Miss  Quentin.  She's  such  an  awfully  good 
sort." 

"Yes,"  agreed  Errington.  "Miss  Quentin  is  quite  charm- 
ing." 

"She  thinks  you  don't  like  her,"  pursued  Jerry,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

"I — not  like  Miss  Quentin  ?    Absurd !" 

"Well,  that's  what  she  thinks,  anyway,"  persisted  Jerry. 
"She  told  me  so,  and  she  seemed  really  sorry  about  it. 
She  believes  you  don't  want  to  be  friends  with  her." 

"Miss  Quentin's  friendship  would  be  delightful.  But — 
you  don't  understand,  Jerry — it's  one  of  the  delights  I 
must  forego." 

When  Errington  spoke  with  such  a  definite  air  of  finality, 
his  young  secretary  knew  from  experience  that  he  might  as 
well  drop  the  subject.  He  could  get  nothing  further  out  of 
Max,  once  the  latter  had  adopted  that  tone  over  any  mat- 
ter. So  Jerry,  being  wise  in  his  generation,  held  his  peace. 

Suddenly  Errington  faced  round  and  laid  his  hands  on 
the  boy's  shoulder. 

"Jerry,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook  with  some  deep 
emotion.  "Thank  God — thank  Him  every  day  of  your  life 
— that  you're  free  and  untrammelled.  All  the  world's 
yours  if  you  choose  to  take  it.  Some  of  us  are  shackled — 
our  arms  tied  behind  our  backs.  And  oh,  my  God!  How 
they  ache  to  bo  free !" 

The  blue  eyes  were  full  of  a  keen  anguish,  the  stern  mouth 


122  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

wry  with  pain.  Never  before  had  Jerry  seen  him  thus 
with  the  mask  off,  and  he  felt  as  though  he  were  watching 
a  soul's  agony  unveiled. 

"Max  .  .  .  dear  old  chap  .  .  ."  he  stammered.  " Can't 
I  help?" 

With  an  obvious  effort  Errington  regained  his  composure, 
but  his  face  was  grey  as  he  answered : — 

"Neither  you  nor  any  one  else,  Jerry,  boy.  I  must  dree 
my  weird,  as  the  Scotch  say.  And  that's  the  hard  part  of 
it — to  be  your  own  judge  and  jury.  A  man  ought  not  to  be 
compelled  to  play  the  double  role  of  victim  and  executioner." 

"And  must  you  ?  .  .  .  No  way  out  ?" 

"None.  Unless" — with  a  hard  laugh — "the  executioner 
throws  up  the  game  and — runs  away,  allowing  the  victim  to 
escape.  And  that's  impossible!  .  .  .  Impossible!"  he  re- 
iterated vehemently,  as  though  arguing  against  some  inner 
voice. 

"Let  him  rip,"  suggested  Jerry.  "Give  the  accused  a 
chance!" 

Errington  laughed  more  naturally.  He  was  rapidly  re- 
gaining his  usual  self-possession.  . 

"Jerry,  you're  a  good  pal,  but  a  bad  adviser.  Get  thee 
behind  ma" 

Steps  sounded  on  the  stairs  outside.  Adrienne  and  Mrs. 
Adams  had  come  back,  and  Errington  turned  composedly  to 
greet  them,  the  veil  of  reticence,  momentarily  swept  aside 
by  the  surge  of  a  sudden  emotion,  falling  once  more  into 
its  place. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  YEAR'S  FRUIT 

SPRING  had  slipped  into  summer,  summer  had  given 
place  again  to  winter,  and  once  more  April  was 
come,  with  her  soft  breath  blowing  upon  the  sticky  green 
buds  and  bidding  them  open,  whilst  daffodils  and  tulips, 
like  slim  sentinels,  swayed  above  the  brown  earth  in  a  riot 
of  tender  colour. 

There  is  something  very  fresh  and  charming  about  London 
in  April.  The  parks  are  aglow  with  young  green,  and  the 
trees  nod  cheerfully  to  the  little  breeze  that  dances  round 
them,  whispering  of  summer.  Even  the  houses  perk  up  un- 
der their  spruce  new  coats  of  paint,  while  every  window 
that  can  afford  it  puts  forth  its  carefully  tended  box  of 
flowers.  It  is  as  though  the  old  city  suddenly  awoke  from 
her  winter  slumber  and  preened  herself  like  a  bird  making 
its  toilet;  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  renewal  abroad — the 
very  carters  and  cabmen  seem  conscious  of  it,  and  acknowl- 
edge it  with  good-humoured  smiles  and  a  flower  worn 
jauntily  in  the  buttonhole. 

Diana  leaned  far  out  of  the  open  window  of  her  room  at 
Brutton  Square,  sniffing  up  the  air  with  its  veiled,  faint 
fragrance  of  spring,  and  gazing  down  in  satisfaction  at  the 
delicate  shimmer  of  green  which  clothed  the  trees  and 
shrubs  in  the  square  below. 

The  realisation  that  a  year  had  slipped  away  since  last 
the  trees  had  worn  that  tender  green  amazed  her ;  it  seemed 
almost  incredible  that  twelve  whole  months  had  gone  by 
since  the  day  when  she  had  first  come  to  Brutton  Square, 

123 


124  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

and  she  and  Bunty  had  joked  together  about  the  ten  com- 
mand tents  on  the  wall. 

The  year  had  brought  both  pleasure  and  pain — as  most 
years  do — pleasure  in  the  friends  she  had  gathered  round 
her,  Adrienne  and  Jerry  and  Bunty — even  with  Olga  Ler- 
montof  an  odd,  rather  one-sided  friendship  had  sprung  up, 
born  of  the  circumstances  which  had  knit  their  paths  to- 
gether— pain  in  the  soreness  which  still  lingered  from  the 
hurt  that  Errington  had  dealt  her.  Albeit,  her  life  had 
been  so  filled  with  work  and  play,  her  mind  so  much  occu- 
pied, that  a  surface  skin,  as  it  were,  had  formed  over  the 
wound,  and  it  was  only  now  and  again  that  a  sudden  throb 
reminded  her  of  its  existence.  Love  had  brushed  her  with 
his  wings  in  passing,  but  she  was  hardly  yet  a  fully  awakened 
woman. 

Nevertheless,  the  brief  episodes  of  her  early  acquaintance 
with  Errington  had  cut  deep  into  a  mind  which  had  hitherto 
reflected  nothing  beyond  the  simple  happenings  of  a  girlhood 
passed  at  a  country  rectory,  and  the  romantic  flair  of  youth 
had  given  their  memory  a  certain  sacred  niche  in  her  heart. 
Some  day  Fate  would  come  along  and  take  them  down  from 
that  shelf  where  they  were  stored,  and  dust  them  and  pre- 
sent them  to  her  afresh  with  a  new  significance. 

For  a  brief  moment  Errington' s  kiss  had  roused  her  dor- 
mant womanhood,  and  then  the  events  of  daily  life  had 
crowded  round  and  lulled  it  asleep  once  more.  In  swift 
succession  there  had  followed  the  vivid  interest  of  increasing 
musical  study,  the  stirrings  of  ambition,  and  a  whole  world 
of  new  people  to  meet  and  rub  shoulders  with. 

So  that  the  end  of  her  second  year  in  London  found  Diana 
still  little  more  than  an  impetuous,  impulsive  girl,  pos- 
sessed of  a  warm,  undisciplined  nature,  and  of  an  uncon- 
scious desire  to  fulfil  her  being  along  the  most  natural  and 
easy  lines,  while  in  spirit  she  leaped  forward  to  the  time 
when  she  should  be  plunged  into  professional  life. 

The  whole  of  her  training  under  Baroni,  with  the  big 
future  that  it  held,  tended  to  give  her  a  somewhat  egotistical 


THE  YEAR'S  FRUIT  125 

outlook,  an  instinctive  feeling  that  everything  must  of  ne- 
cessity subordinate  itself  to  her  demands — an  excellent 
foundation,  no  doubt,  on  which  to  build  up  a  reputation  as 
a  famous  singer  in  a  world  where  people  are  apt  to  take 
you  very  much  at  your  own  valuation,  but  a  poor  preparation 
for  the  sacrifices  and  self-immolation  that  love  not  infre- 
quently  demands. 

Above  all  else,  this  second  year  of  study  had  brought  in 
fullest  measure  the  development  and  enriching  of  her  voice. 
Baroni  had  schooled  it  with  the  utmost  care,  keeping  always 
in  view  his  purpose  that  the  coming  June  should  witness  her 
debut,  and  Diana,  catching  fire  from  his  enthusiasm,  had 
answered  to  every  demand  he  had  made  upon  her. 

Her  voice  was  now  something  to  marvel  at.  It  had  ma- 
tured into  a  rich  contralto  of  amazing  compass,  and  with  a 
peculiar  thrilling  quality  about  it  which  gripped  and  held 
you  almost  as  though  some  one  had  laid  a  hand  upon  your 
heart.  Baroni  hugged  himself  as  he  realised  what  a  furore 
in  the  musical  world  this  voice  would  create  when  at  last  he 
allowed  the  silence  to  be  broken.  Already  there  were  whis- 
pers flying  about  of  the  wonderful  contralto  he  was  training, 
of  whom  it  was  rumoured  that  she  would  have  the  whole 
world  at  her  feet  from  the  moment  that  Baroni  produced 
her. 

The  old  maestro  had  his  plans  all  cut  and  dried.  Early 
in  June,  just  when  the  season  should  be  in  full  swing,  there 
was  to  be  a  concert — a  recital  with  only  Kirolski,  the  Polish 
violinist,  and  Madame  Berthe  Louvigny,  the  famous  French 
pianist,  to  assist.  Those  two  names  alone  would  inevitably 
draw  a  big  crowd  of  all  the  musical  people  who  mattered, 
and  Diana's  golden  voice  would  do  the  rest. 

This  was  to  be  the  solitary  concert  for  the  season,  but,  to 
whet  the  appetite  of  society,  Diana  was  also  to  appear  at  a 
single  big  reception — "Baroni  won't  look  at  anything  less 
than  a  ducal  house  with  Royalty  present,"  as  Jerry  banter- 
ingly  asserted — and  then,  while  the  world  was  still  agape 
with  interest  and  excitement,  the  singer  was  to  be  whisked 


126  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

away  to  Crailing  for  three  months'  holiday,  and  to  accept 
no  more  engagements  until  the  winter.  By  that  time, 
Baroni  anticipated,  people  would  be  feverishly  impatient  for 
her  reappearance,  and  the  winter  campaign  would  resolve 
itself  into  one  long  trail  of  glory. 

Diana  had  been  better  able  latterly  to  devote  herself  to 
her  work,  as  Errington  had  been  out  of  England  for  a  time. 
So  long  as  there  was  the  likelihood  of  meeting  him  at  any 
moment,  her  nerves  had  been  more  or  less  in  a  state  of  ten- 
sion. There  was  that  between  them  which  made  it  impossible 
for  her  to  regard  him  with  the  cool,  indifferent  friendship 
which  he  himself  seemed  so  well  able  to  assume.  Despite 
herself,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  touch  of  his  hand,  caused 
a  curious  little  fluttering  within  her,  like  the  flicker  of  a 
compass  needle  when  it  quivers  to  the  north.  If  he  entered 
the  same  room  as  herself,  she  was  instantly  aware  of  it,  even 
though  she  might  not  chance  to  be  looking  in  his  direction 
at  the  moment.  Indeed,  her  consciousness  of  him  was  so 
acute,  so  vital,  that  she  sometimes  wondered  how  it  was  pos- 
sible that  one  person  could  mean  so  much  to  another  and 
yet  himself  feel  no  reciprocal  interest  And  that  he  did 
feel  none,  his  unvarying  indifference  of  manner  had  at  last 
convinced  her. 

But,  even  so,  she  was  unable  to  banish  him  from  her 
thoughts.  This  was  the  first  day  of  her  return  to  London 
after  the  Easter  holidays,  which  she  had  spent  as  usual  at 
Crailing  Rectory,  and  already  she  was  wondering  rather 
wistfully  whether  Errington  would  be  back  in  England  dur- 
ing the  summer.  She  felt  that  if  only  she  could  know  why 
he  had  changed  so  completely  towards  her,  why  the  interest 
she  had  so  obviously  awakened  in  him  upon  first  meeting 
had  waned  and  died,  she  might  be  able  to  thrust  him  com- 
pletely out  of  her  thoughts,  and  accept  him  merely  as  the 
casual  acquaintance  which  was  all  he  apparently  claimed  to 
be.  But  the  restless,  irritable  longing  to  know,  to  have  his 
incomprehensible  behaviour  explained,  kept  him  ever  in 
her  mind. 


THE  YEAR'S  FRUIT  127 

Only  once  or  twice  had  his  name  been  mentioned  between 
Olga  Lermentof  and  herself,  and  on  each  occasion  the  former 
had  repeated  her  caution,  admonishing  Diana  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him.  It  almost  seemed  as  though  she  had 
some  personal  feeling  of  dislike  towards  him.  Indeed  Diana 
had  accused  her  of  it,  only  to  be  met  with  a  quiet  negative. 

"No,"  she  had  replied  serenely.  "I  don't  dislike  him. 
But  I  disapprove  of  much  that  he  does." 

"He  is  rather  an  attractive  person,"  Diana  ventured  ten- 
tatively. 

Olga  Lermontof  shot  a  keen  glance  at  her. 

"Well,  I  advise  you  not  to  give  him  your  friendship,"  she 
said,  "or" — sneeringly — "anything  of  greater  value." 

A  sharp  ratrtat  at  the  door  of  her  sitting-room  recalled 
Diana's  wandering  thoughts  to  the  present.  She  threw  a 
glance  of  half-comic  dismay  at  the  state  of  her  sitting-room 
— every  available  chair  and  table  seemed  to  be  strewn  with 
the  contents  of  the  trunks  she  was  unpacking — and  then, 
with  a  resigned  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  she  crossed  to  the 
door  and  threw  it  open.  Bunty  was  standing  outside. 

"What  is  it?"  Diana  was  beginning,  when  she  caught 
sight  of  a  pleasant,  ugly  face  appearing  over  little  Miss 
Bunting's  shoulder.  "Oh,  Jerry,  is  it  you  ?"  she  exclaimed 
delightedly. 

"He  insisted  on  coming  up,  Miss  Quentin,"  said  Bunty, 
"although  I  told  him  you  had  only  just  arrived  and  would 
be  in  the  middle  of  unpacking." 

"I've  got  an  important  message  to  deliver,"  asserted  Jerry, 
grinning,  and  shaking  both  Diana's  hands  exuberantly. 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  unpacking,"  cried  Diana,  beginning 
to  bundle  the  things  off  the  tables  and  chairs  back  into  one 
of  the  open  trunks.  "Bunty  darling,  help  me  to  clear  a 
space,  and  then  go  and  order  tea  for  two  up  here — and  ex- 
pense be  blowed !  Oh,  and  I'll  put  a  match  to  the  fire — it's 
quite  cold  enough.  Come  in,  Jerry,  and  tell  me  all  the  news." 

"I'll  light  that  fire  first,"  said  Jerry,  practically.  "We 
can  talk  when  Bunty  darling  brings  our  tea." 


128  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Miss  Bunting  shook  her  head  at  him  and  tried  to  frown, 
but  as  no  one  ever  minded  in  the  least  what  Jerry  said,  her 
effort  at  propriety  was  a  failure,  and  she  retreated  to  see 
about  the  tea,  observing  maliciously : — 

"I'll  send  'Mrs.  Lawrence  darling'  up  to  talk  to  you,  Mr. 
Leigh." 

"Great  Jehosaphat !" — Jerry  flew  after  her  to  the  door— 
"If  you  do,  I'm  off.  That  woman  upsets  my  digestion — 
she's  .so  beastly  effusive.  I  thought  she  was  going  to  kiss 
me  last  time." 

Miss  Bunting  laughed  as  she  disappeared  downstairs. 

"You're  safe  to-day,"  she  threw  back  at  him.  "She's 
out." 

Jerry  returned  to  his  smouldering  fire  and  proceeded  to 
encourage  it  with  the  bellows  till,  by  the  time  the  tea  came 
up,  the  flames  were  leaping  and  crackling  cheerfully  in  the 
little  grate. 

"And  now,"  said  Diana,  as  they  settled  themselves  for  a 
comfortable  yarn  over  the  teacups,  "tell  me  all  the  news.  Oh, 
by  the  way,  what's  your  important  message?  I  don't  be- 
lieve"— regarding  him  severely — "that  you've  got  one  at 
all.  It  was  just  an  excuse." 

"It  wasn't,  honour  bright.  It's  from  Miss  de  Gervais 
— she  sent  me  round  to  see  you  expressly.  You  know,  while 
Errington's  away  I  call  at  her  place  for  orders  like  the 
butcher's  boy  every  morning.  The  boss  asked  me  to  look 
after  her  and  make  myself  useful  during  his  absence." 

"Well,"  said  Diana  impatiently.  "What's  the  message?" 
It  did  not  interest  her  in  the  least  to  hear  about  the  ar- 
rangements Max  had  made  for  Adrienne's  convenience. 

"Miss  de  Gervais  is  having  a  reception — 'Hans  Breitmann 
gif  a  barty,'  you  know 

"Of  course  I  know,"  broke  in  Diana  irritably,  "seeing  that 
I'm  asked  to  it." 

Jerry  continued  patiently. 

"And  she  wants  you  as  a  special  favour  to  sing  for  her. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  there  are  to  be  one  or  two  bigwigs  there 


THE  YEAR'S  FRUIT  129 

whom  she  thinks  it  might  be  useful  for  you  to  meefc — in- 
fluence, you  know,"  he  added,  waving  his  hand  expansively, 
"push,  shove,  backing,  wire-pulling " 

"Oh,  be  quiet,  Jerry,"  interrupted  Diana,  laughing  in 
spite  of  herself.  "It's  no  good,  you  know.  It's  dear  of 
Adrienne  to  think  of  it,  but  Baroni  won't  let  me  do  it.  He 
hasn't  allowed  me  to  sing  anywhere  this  last  year." 

"Doesn't  want  to  take  the  cream  off  the  milk,  I  suppose," 
said  Jerry,  with  a  grin.  "But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  has 
given  permission  this  time.  Miss  de  Gervais  went  to  see  him 
about  it  herself,  and  he's  consented.  I've  got  a  letter  for 
you  from  the  old  chap" — producing  it  as  he  spoke. 

"Adrienne  is  a  marvel,"  said  Diana,  as  she  slit  the  flap  of. 
the  envelope.  "I'm  sure  Baroni  would  have  refused  any  one 
else,  but  she  seems  to  be  able  to  twist  him  round  her  little 
finger."  \ 

"Dear  Miss  Quentin" — Baroni  had  written  in  his  funny, 
cramped  handwriting — "You  may  sing  for  Miss  de  Gervais. 
I  have  seen  the  list  of  guests,  and  it  can  do  no  harm — pos- 
sibly a  little  good.  Yours  very  sincerely,  CAKLO  BABONT." 

"Miss  de  Gervais  must  have  a  'way'  with  her,"  said 
Jerry  meditatively.  "I  observe  that  even  my  boss  always 
does  her  bidding  like  a  lamb." 

Diana  poured  herself  out  a  second  cup  of  tea  before  she 
asked  negligently: — 

"When's  your  'boss'  returning?  It  seems  to  me  he's  al- 
lowing you  to  live  the  life  of  the  idle  rich.  Will  he  be  back 
for  Adrienne's  reception?" 

"No.    About  a  week  afterwards,  I  expect." 

"Where's  he  been  ?" 

"Oh,  all  over  the  shop — I've  had  letters  from  him  from 
half  the  capitals  in  Europe.  But  he's  been  in  Russia  longest 
of  all,  I  think." 

"Russia  ?" — musingly.  "I  suppose  he  isn't  a  Russian  by 
any  chance?" 

"I've  never  asked  him,"  returned  Jerry  shortly. 

"He  is  certainly  not  pure  English.     Look  at  his  high 


130  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

cheek-bones.  And  his  temperament  isn't  English,  either," 
she  added,  with  a  secret  smile. 

Jerry  remained  silent 

"Don't  you  think  it's  rather  funny  that  we  none  of  us 
know  anything  about  him? — I  mean  beyond  the  mere  fact 
that  his  name  is  Errington  and  that  he's  a  well-known  play- 
wright." 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know  more  ?"  growled  Jerry. 

"Well,  I  think  there  is  something  behind,  something  odd 
about  him.  Olga  Lermontof  is  always  hinting  that  there 
is." 

"Look  here,  Diana,"  said  Jerry,  getting  rather  red. 
"Don't  let's  talk  about  Errington.  You  know  we  always  get 
shirty  with  each  other  when  we  do.  I'm  not  going  to  pry 
into  his  private  concerns — and  as  for  Miss  Lermontof,  she's 
the  type  of  woman  who  simply  revels  in  making  mischief." 

"But  it  is  funny  Mr.  Errington  should  be  so — so  reserved 
about  himself,"  persisted  Diana.  "Hasn't  he  ever  told  you 
anything  ?" 

"No,  he  has  not,"  replied  Jerry  curtly.  "Nor  should  I 
ever  ask  him  to.  I'm  quite  content  to  take  him  as  I  find 
him." 

"All  the  same,  I  believe  Miss  Lermontof  knows  some- 
thing about  him — something  not  quite  to  his  credit." 

"I  swear  she  doesn't,"  burst  out  Jerry  violently.  "Just 
because  he  doesn't  choose  to  blab  out  all  his  private  affairs 
to  the  world  at  large,  that  black-browed  female  Tartar  "•nust 
needs  imagine  he  has  something  to  conceal.  It's  damnable! 
I'd  stake  my  life  Errington's  as  straight  as  a  die — and  al- 
ways has  been." 

"You're  a  good  friend,  Jerry,"  said  Diana,  rather  wist- 
fully. 

"Yes,  I  am,"  he  returned  stoutly.  "And  so  are  you,  as  a 
rule.  I  can't  think  why  you're  so  beWtly  unfair  to  Er- 
rington." 


THE  YEAR'S  FRUIT  131 

"You  forget/'  she  said  swiftly,  "he's  not  my  friend.  And 
— perhaps — he  hasn't  always  been  quite  fair  to  me." 

"Oh,  well,  let's  drop  the  subject  now" — Jerry  wriggled 
his  broad  shoulders  uncomfortably.  "Tell  me,  how  are  the 
Rector  and — and  Miss  Stair?" 

The  previous  summer  Jerry  had  spent  a  week  at  Red 
Gables,  and  had  made  Joan's  acquaintance.  Apparently 
the  two  had  found  each  other's  society  somewhat  absorbing, 
for  Adrienne  had  laughingly  declared  that  she  didn't  quite 
know  whether  Jerry  were  really  staying  at  Red  Gables  or  at 
the  Rectory. 

"Fobs  and  Joan  sent  all  sorts  of  nice  messages  for  you," 
said  Diana,  smiling  a  little.  "They're  both  coming  up  to 
town  for  my  recital,  you  know." 

"Are  they?" — eagerly.  "Hurrah!  .  .  .  We  must  go  on 
the  bust  when  it's  over.  The  concert  will  be  in  the  after- 
noon, won't  it?"  Diana  nodded.  "Then  we  must  have  a 
commemoration  dinner  in  the  evening.  Oh,  why  am  I  not 
a  millionaire?  Then  I'd  stand  you  all  dinner  at  the  'Carl- 
ton.'  " 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  then  went  on  quickly : 

"I  shall  have  to  make  money  somehow.  A  man  can't 
marry  or  my  screw  as  a  secretary,  you  know." 

Diana  hastily  concealed  a  smile, 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  contemplating  matrimony,"  she 
observed. 

"I'm  not" — reddening  a  little.  "But — well,  one  day  I 
expect  I  shall.  It's  quite  the  usual  sort  of  thing — done  by 
all  the  best  people.  But  it  can't  be  managed  on  two  hun- 
dred a  year !  And  that's  the  net  amount  of  my  princely  in- 
come." 

"But  I  thought  that  your  people  had  plenty  of  money?" 

"So  they  have — trucks  of  it.  Coal-trucks!" — with  a  deb- 
onair reference  to  the  fact  that  Leigh  pere  was  a  wealthy 
coal-owr.er.  "But,  you  see,  when  I  was  having  my  fling, 
which  came  to  such  an  abrupt  end  at  Monte,  the  governor 


132  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

got  downright  ratty  with  me — kicked  up  no  end  of  a  ahina 
Told  me  not  to  darken  his  doors  again,  and  that  I  might  take 
my  own.  road  to  the  devil  for  all  he  cared,  and  generally 
played  the  part  of  the  outraged  parent  I  must  say,"  he 
added  ingenuously,  "that  the  old  boy  had  paid  my  debts  and 
set  me  straight  a  good  many  times  before  he  did  cut  up 
rusty." 

"You're  the  only  child,  aren't  you  ?"  Jerry  nodded.  "Oh, 
well  then,  of  course  he'll  come  round  in  time — they  always 
do.  I  shouldn't  worry  a  bit  if  I  were  you." 

"Well,"  said  Jerry  hesitatingly,  "I  did  think  that  per- 
haps if  I  went  to  him  some  day  with  a  certificate  of  good 
character  and  steady  work  from  Errington,  it  might  smooth 
matters  a  bit.  I'm  fond  of  the  governor,  you  know,  in  spite 
of  his  damn  bad  temper — and  it  must  be  rather  rotten  for 
the  old  chap  living  all  by  himself  at  Abbotsleigh." 

"Yes,  it  must.  One  fine  day  you'll  make  it  up  with  him, 
Jerry,  and  he'll  slay  the  fatted  calf  and  you'll  have  no  end 
of  a  good  time." 

Just  then  the  clock  of  a  neighbouring  church  chimed  the 
half-hour,  and  Jerry  jumped  to  his  feet  in  a  hurry. 

"My  hat!  Half-past  six!  I  must  be  toddling.  What  a 
squanderer  of  unconsidered  hours  you  are,  Diana!  .  .  . 
Well,  by-bye,  old  girl;  it's  good  to  see  you  back  in  town. 
Then  I  may  tell  Miss  de  Gervais  that  you'll  sing  for  her?" 

Diana  nodded. 

"Of  course  I  will.  It  will  be  a  sort  of  preliminary  canter 
for  my  recital." 

"And  when  that  event  comes  off,  you'll  sail  past  the  post 
lengths  in  front  of  any  one  else." 

And  with  that  Jerry  took  his  departure.  A  minute  later 
Diana  heard  the  front  door  bang,  and  from  the  window 
watched  him  striding  along  the  street  He  looked  back, 
just  before  he  turned  the  corner,  and  waved  his  hand  cheerily. 

"Nice  boy!"  she  murmured,  and  then  set  about  her  un' 
packing  in  good  earnest. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MAX  EKEINGTON'B  BETUKST 

IT  was  the  evening  of  Adrienne's  reception,  and  Diana 
was  adding  a  few  last  touches  to  her  toilette  for  the  oc- 
casion. Bunty  had  been  playing  the  part  of  lady's  maid, 
and  now  they  both  stood  back  to  observe  the  result  of  their 
labours. 

"You  do  look  nice!"  remarked  Miss  Bunting,  in  a  tone 
of  satisfaction. 

Diana  glanced  half-shyly  into  the  long  glass  panel  of  the 
wardrobe  door.  There  was  something  vivid  and  arresting 
about  her  to-night,  as  though  she  were  tremulously  aware 
that  she  was  about  to  take  the  first  step  along  her  road  as 
a  public  singer.  A  touch  of  excitement  had  added  an  un- 
wonted brilliance  to  her  eyes,  while  a  faint  flush  came  and 
went  swiftly  in  her  cheeks. 

Bunty,  without  knowing  quite  what  it  was  that  appealed, 
was  suddenly  conscious  of  the  sheer  physical  charm  of  her. 

"You  are  rather  wonderful,"  she  said  consideringly. 

A  sense  of  the  sharp  contrast  between  them  smote  Diana 
almost  painfully — she  herself,  young  and  radiant,  holding 
in  her  slender  throat  a  key  that  would  unlock  the  doors  of 
the  whole  world,  and  beside  her  the  little  boarding-house 
help,  equally  young,  and  with  all  youth's  big  demands  pent 
up  within  her,  yet  ahead  of  her  only  a  drab  vista  of  other 
boarding-houses — some  better,  some  worse,  mayhap — but  al- 
ways eating  the  bread  of  servitude,  her  only  possible  way  of 
escape  by  means  of  matrimony  with  some  little  underpaid 
clerk. 

And  what  had  Bunty  done  to  deserve  so  poor  a  lot  ?  Hen* 

133 


134  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

was  unquestionably  by  far  the  finer  character  of  the  two,  as 
Diana  frankly  admitted  to  herself.  In  truth,  the  apparent 
injustices  of  fate  made  a  riddle  hard  to  read. 

"And  you" — Diana  spoke  impulsively — "you  are  the  dear- 
est thing  imaginable.  I  wish  you  were  coming  with  me." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  you  sing  in  those  big  rooms,"  ac- 
knowledged Bunty,  a  little  wistfully. 

"When  I  give  my  recital  you  shall  have  a  seat  in  the  front 
row,"  Diana  promised,  as  she  picked  up  her  gloves  and 
music-case. 

A  tap  sounded  at  the  door. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"  inquired  Olga  Lermontof's  voice  from 
outside. 

Bunty  opened  the  door. 

"Oh,  come  in,  Miss  Lermontof.  Yes,  Miss  Quentin  is 
quite  ready,  and  I  must  run  away  now." 

Olga  came  in  and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  Diana. 
Then  she  deliberately  stepped  close  to  her,  so  that  their  re- 
flections showed  side  by  side  in  the  big  mirror. 

"Black  and  white  angels — quite  symbolical,"  she  ob- 
served, with  a  short  laugh. 

She  was  dressed  entirely  in  black,  and  her  sable  figure 
made  a  startling  foil  to  Diana's  slender  whiteness. 

"Nervous?"  she  asked  laconically,  noticing  the  restless 
tapping  of  the  other's  foot. 

"I  believe  I  am,"  replied  Diana,  smiling  a  little. 

"You  needn't  be." 

"I  should  be  terrified  if  anyone  else  were  accompanying 
me.  But,  somehow,  I  think  you  always  give  me  confidence 
when  I'm  singing." 

"Probably  because  I'm  always  firmly  convinced  of  your 
ultimate  success." 

"No,  no.  It  isn't  that.  It's  because  you're  the  most  per- 
fect accompanist  any  one  could  have." 

Miss  Lermontof  swept  her  a  mocking  curtsey. 

"Mille  remerciments !"     Then  she  laughed  rather  oddly. 


MAX  ilRRINGTON'S  RETURN  135 

"I  believe  you  still  have  no  conception  of  the  glory  of  your 
voice,  you  queer  child." 

"Is  it  really  so  good  ?"  asked  Diana,  with  the  genuine  art- 
ist's craving  to  be  reassured. 

Olga  Lermontof  looked  at  her  speculatively. 

"I  suppose  you  can't  understand  it  at  present,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause.  "You  will,  though,  when  you've  given  a  few 
concerts  and  seen  its  effect  upon  the  audience.  Now,  come 
along;  it's  time  we  started." 

They  found  Adrienne's  rooms  fairly  full,  but  not  in  the 
least  overcrowded.  The  big  double  doors  between  the  two 
drawing-rooms  had  been  thrown  -open,  and  the  tide  of  people 
flowed  back  and  forth  from  one  room  to  the  other.  A  small 
platform  had  been  erected  at  one  end,  and  as  Diana  and 
Miss  Lermontof  entered,  a  French  diseuse  was  just  ascend- 
ing it  preparatory  to  reciting  in  her  native  tongue. 

The  recitation — vivid,  accompanied  by  the  direct,  ex- 
pressive gesture  for  which  Mademoiselle  de  Bonvouloir  was 
so  famous — was  follewed  at  appropriate  intervals  by  one  or 
two  items  of  instrumental  music,  and  then  Diana  found  her- 
self mounting  the  little  platform,  and  a  hush  descended  anew 
upon  the  throng  of  people,  the  last  eager  chatterers  twitter- 
ing into  silence  as  Olga  Lermontof  struck  the  first  note  of 
the  song's  prelude. 

Diana  was  conscious  of  a  small  sea  of  faces  all  turned 
towards  her,  most  of  them  unfamiliar.  She  could  just  see 
Adrienne  smiling  at  her  from  the  back  of  the  room,  and 
near  the  double  doors  Jerry  was  standing  next  a  tall  man 
whose  back  was  towards  the  platform  as  he  bent  to  move 
aside  a  chair  that  was  in  the  way.  The  next  moment  he 
had  straightened  himself  and  turned  round,  and  with  a 
sudden,  almost  agonising  leap  of  the  heart  Diana  saw  that  it 
was  Max  Errington. 

He  had  come  back !  After  that  first  wild  throb  her  heart 
seemed  to  stand  still,  the  room  grew  dark  around  her,  and 
she  swayed  a  little  where  she  stood. 


136  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Nervous!"  murmured  one  man  to  another,  beneath  his 
breath. 

Olga  Lennontof  had  finished  the  prelude,  and,  finding  thart. 
Diana  had  failed  to  come  in,  composedly  recommenced  it 
Diana  was  dimly  conscious  of  the  repetition,  and  then  the 
mist  gradually  cleared  away  from  before  her  eyes,  and  this 
time,  when  the  accompanist  played  the  bar  of  her  entry, 
the  habit  of  long  practice  prevailed  and  she  took  up  the  voice 
part  with  accurate  precision. 

The  hush  deepened  in  the  room.  Perhaps  the  very  emo- 
tion under  which  Diana  was  labouring  added  to  the  charm 
of  her  wonderful  voice — gave  it  an  indescribable  appeal 
which  held  the  critical  audience,  familiar  with  all  the  best 
that  the  musical  world  could  offer,  spell-bound. 

When  she  ceased,  and  the  last  exquisite  note  had  vibrated 
into  silence,  the  enthusiasm  of  the  applause  that  broke  out 
would  have  done  justice  to  a  theatre  pit  audience  rather  than 
to  a  more  or  less  blase  society  crowd.  And  when  the  whisper 
went  round  that  this  was  to  be  her  only  song — that  Baroni 
had  laid  his  veto  upon  her  singing  twice — the  clapping  and 
demands  for  an  encore  were  redoubled. 

Olga  Lennontof's  eyes,  roaming  over  the  room,  rested  at 
last  upon  the  face  of  Max  Errington,  and  with  the  recollec- 
tion of  Diana's  hesitancy  at  the  beginning  of  the  song  a  brief 
smile  flashed  across  her  face. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  Diana,  who  had  bowed  repeatedly 
without  stemming  the  applause,  turned  to  the  accompanist, 
a  little  flushed  with  the  thrill  of  this  first  public  recognition 
of  her  gifts. 

"Sing  'The  Haven  of  Memory,' "  whispered  Olga. 

It  was  a  sad  little  love  lyric  which  Baroni  himself  had 
set  to  music  specially  for  the  voice  of  his  favourite  pupil,  and 
as  Diana's  low  rich  notes  took  up  the  plaintive  melody,  the 
audience  settled  itself  down  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  to 
listen  once  more. 


MAX  ERRINGTON'S  RETURN"  137 

Do  you  remember 

Our  great  love 'a  pure  unfolding, 
The  troth  you  gave, 

And  prayed  for  God's  upholding, 
Long  and  long  ago? 

Out  of  the  past 

A  dream — and  then  the  waking — 
Comes  back  to  me, 

Of  love  and  love's  forsaking 
Ere  the  summer  waned. 

Ah!   let  me  dream 

That  still  a  little  kindness 
Dwelt  in  the  smile 

That  chid  my  foolish  blindness, 
When  you  said  good-bye. 

Let  me  remember, 

When  I  am  very  lonely, 
How  once  your  love 

But  crowned  and  blessed  me  only, 
Long  and  long  ago!  * 

The  haunting  melody  ceased,  and  an  infinitesimal  pause 
ensued  before  the  clapping  broke  out  It  was  rather  sub- 
dued this  time;  more  than  one  pair  of  eyes  were  looking  at 
the  singer  through  the  grey  mist  of  memory. 

An  old  lady  with  very  white  hair  and  a  reputation  for  a 
witty  tongue  that  had  been  dipped  in  vinegar  came  up  to 
Diana  as  she  descended  from  the  platform. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  and  the  keen  old  eyes  were  suddenly 
blurred  and  dim.  "I  want  to  thank  you.  One  is  apt  to  for- 
get— when  one  is  very  lonely — that  we've  most  of  us  worn 
love's  crown  just  once — if  only  for  a  few  moments  of  our 
lives,  .  .  .  And  it's  good  to  be  reminded  of  it,  even  though 
it  may  hurt  a  little." 

"That  was  the  Dowager  Duchess  of  Linfield,"  murmured 
Olga,  when  the  old  lady  had  moved  away  again.  "They 
say  she  waa  madly  in  love  with  an  Italian  opera  singer  in 

*  This  song,  ' '  The  Haven  of  Memory, ' '  has  been  set  to  music 
by  Isador  Epstein:  published  by  G.  Eicordi  &  Co.,  265  Eegent 
Street,  W. 


138  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

the  days  of  her  youth.  But,  of  course,  at  that  time  he  was 
quite  unknown  and  altogether  ineligible,  so  she  married  the 
late  Duke,  who  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  By  the 
time  he  died  the  opera  singer  was  dead,  too." 

That  was  Diana's  first  taste  of  the  power  of  a  beautiful 
voice  to  unlock  the  closed  chambers  of  the  heart  where  lie 
our  hidden  memories — the  long  pain  of  years,  sometimes 
unveiled  to  those  whose  gifts  appeal  directly  to  the  emotions. 
It  sobered  her  a  little.  This,  then,  she  thought,  this  leaf  of 
rue  that  seemed  to  bring  the  sadness  of  the  world  so  close, 
was  interwoven  with  the  crown  of  laurel. 

"Won't  you  say  how  do  you  do  to  me,  Miss  Quentin  ?  I've 
been  deputed  by  Miss  de  Gervais  to  see  that  you  have  some 
supper  after  breaking  all  our  hearts  with  your  singing." 

Diana,  roused  from  her  thoughts,  looked  up  to  see  Max 
Errington  regarding  her  with  the  old,  faintly  amused  mock- 
ery in  his  eyes. 

She  shook  hands. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  got  a  heart  to  break,"  she  retorted, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  mine  was  broken  long  before  I  heard  you  sing. 
Otherwise  I  would  not  answer  for  the  consequences  of  that 
sad  little  song  of  yours.  What  is  it  called  ?" 

"  'The  Haven  of  Memory,'  "  replied  Diana,  as  Erring- 
ton  skilfully  piloted  her  to  a  small  table  standing  by  itself 
in  an  alcove  of  the  supper-room, 

"What  a  misleading  name !  Wouldn't  'The  Hell  of  Mem- 
ory' be  more  appropriate — more  true  to  life?" 

"I  suppose,"  answered  Diana  soberly,  "that  it  might  ap- 
pear differently  to  different  people." 

"You  mean  that  the  garden  of  memory  may  have  several 
aspects — like  a  house  ?  I'm  afraid  mine  faces  north.  Yours, 
I  expect,  is  full  of  spring  flowers" — smiling  a  little  quizzi- 
cally. 

"With  the  addition  of  a  few  weeds,"  she  answered. 

''Weeds?  Surely  not?  Who  planted  them  there?"  His 
keen,  penetrating  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face. 


MAX  ERRINGTON'S  RETURN  139 

Diana  was  silent,  her  fingers  trifling  nervously  with  the 
salt  in  one  of  the  little  silver  cruets,  first  piling  it  up  into  a 
tiny  mound,  and  then  flattening  it  down  again  and  pattern- 
ing its  surface  with  criss-cross  lines. 

There  was  no  one  near.  In  the  alcove  Errington  had 
chosen,  the  two  were  completely  screened  from  the  rest  of 
the  room  by  a  carved  oak  pillar  and  velvet  curtains. 

He  laid  his  hand  over  the  restless  fingers,  holding  them 
in  a  sure,  firm  clasp  that  brought  back  vividly  to  her  mind 
the  remembrance  of  that  day  when  he  had  helped  her  up 
the  steps  of  the  quayside  at  Crailing. 

"Diana" — his  voice  deepened  a  little — "am  I  responsible 
for  any  of  the  weeds  in  your  garden  ?" 

Her  hand  trembled  a  little  under  his.  After  a  moment 
she  threw  back  her  head  defiantly  and  met  his  glance. 

"Perhaps  there's  a  stinging-nettle  or  two  labelled  with 
your  name,"  she  answered  lightly.  "The  Nettlewort  Er- 
ringtonia,"  she  added,  smiling. 

Diana  was  growing  up  rapidly. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  wouldn't  believe  me  if 
I  told  you  that  I'm  sorry — that  I'd  uproot  them  if  I  could  ?" 

She  looked  away  from  him  in  silence.  He  could  not  see 
her  expression,  only  the  pure  outline  of  her  cheek  and  a  little 
pulse  that  was  beating  rapidly  in  her  throat. 

With  a  sudden,  impetuous  movement  he  released  her  hand, 
almost  flinging  it  from  him. 

"My  application  for  the  post  of  gardener  is  refused,  I 
see,"  he  said.  "And  quite  rightly,  too.  It  was  great  pre- 
sumption on  my  part.  After  all" — with  bitter  mockery — 
"what  are  a  handful  of  nettles  in  the  garden  of  a  prima 
donna?  They'll  soon  be  stifled  beneath  the  wreaths  of  laurel 
and  bouquets  that  the  world  will  throw  you.  You'll  never 
even  feel  their  sting." 

"You  are  wrong,"  said  Diana,  very  low,  "quite  wrong. 
They  have  stung  me.  Mr.  Errington" — and  as  she  turned 
to  him  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  brimming  with  tears — 
"why  can't  we  be  friends?  You — you  have  helped  me  so 


140  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

many  times  that  I  don't  understand  why  yon  treat  me  now 
.  .  .  almost  as  though  I  were  an  enemy  ?" 

"An  enemy?  .  .  .  Yvu.1" 

"Yes,"  she  said  steadily. 

He  was  silent 

"I  don't  wish  to  be,"  she  went  on,  an  odd  wistfulnese  in 
her  voice.  "Can't  we — be  friends  ?" 

Errington  pushed  his  plate  aside  abruptly. 

"You  don't  know  what  you're  offering  me,"  he  said,  in 
hurrying  tones.  "If  I  could  only  take  it!  ...  But  I've 
no  right  to  make  friends — no  right.  I  think  I've  been 
singled  out  by  fate  to  live  alone." 

"Yet  you  are  friends  with  Miss  de  Gervais,"  she  said 
quickly. 

"I  write  plays  for  her,"  he  replied  evasively.  "So  that 
we  are  obliged  to  see  a  good  deal  of  each  other." 

"And  apparently  you  don't  want  to  be  friends  with  me." 

"There  can  be  little  in  common  between  a  mere  quill- 
driver  and — a  prima,  dorma," 

She  turned  on  him  swiftly. 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  at  present  you  are  a  famous 
dramatist,  while  I  am  merely  a  musical  student." 

"You  divested  yourself  of  that  title  for  ever  this  eve- 
ning," he  returned.  "It  was  no  'student'  who  sang  'The 
Haven  of  Memory.' ' 

"All  the  same  I  shall  have  to  study  for  a  long  time  yet, 
Baroni  tells  me,"— smiling  a  little. 

"In  that  sense  a  great  artiste  is  always  a  student  But 
what  I  meant  by  saying  that  a  mere  writer  has  no  place  in 
a  prima.  donna's  life  was  that,  whereas  my  work  is  more  or 
less  a  hobby,  and  my  little  bit  of  'fame' — as  you  choose  to 
call  it — merely  a  side-issue,  your  work  will  be  your  whole 
existence.  You  will  live  for  it  entirely — your  art  and  the 
world's  recognition  of  it  will  absorb  every  thought.  There 
will  be  no  room  in  your  life  for  the  friendship  of  insignifi- 
cant people  like  myself." 

"Try  me,"  she  said  demurely. 


MAX  ERRINGTON'S  RETURN  141 

He  swung  round  on  her  with  a  sudden  fierceness. 

"By  God!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  you  knew  the  temptation 
...  if  you  knew  how  I  long  to  take  what  you  offer!" 

She  smiled  at  him — a  slow,  sweet  smile  that  curved  her 
mouth,  and  climbing  to  her  eyes  lit  them  with  a  soft 
radiance. 

"Well?"  she  said  quietly.     "Why  not?" 

He  got  up  abruptly,  and  going  to  the  window,  stood  with 
his  back  to  her,  looking  out  into  the  night. 

She  watched  him  consideringly.  Intuitively  she  knew 
that  he  was  fighting  a  battle  with  himself.  She  had  always 
been  conscious  of  the  element  of  friction  in  their  intercourse. 
This  evening  it  had  suddenly  crystallised  into  a  definite 
realisation  that  although  this  man  desired  to  be  her  friend 
— Truth,  at  the  bottom  of  her  mental  well,  whispered  per- 
haps even  something  more — he  was  caught  back,  restrained 
by  the  knowledge  of  some  obstacle,  some  hindrance  to  their 
friendship  of  which  she  was  entirely  ignorant. 

She  waited  in  silence. 

Presently  he  turned  back  to  her,  and  she  gathered  from 
his  expression  that  he  had  come  to  a  decision.  In  the  mo- 
ment that  elapsed  before  he  spoke  she  had  time  to  be  aware 
of  a  sudden,  almost  breathless  anxiety,  and  instinctively  she 
let  her  lids  fall  over  her  eyes  lest  he  should  read  and  under- 
stand the  apprehension  in  them. 

"Diana." 

His  voice  came  gently  and  gravely  to  her  ears.  With 
an  effort  she  looked  up  and  found  him  regarding  her  with 
eyes  from  which  all  the  old  ironical  mockery  had  fled.  They 
were  very  steady  and  kind — kinder  than  she  had  ever  be- 
lieved it  possible  for  them  to  be.  Her  throat  contracted 
painfully,  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  quickly,  plead- 
ingly, like  a  child. 

He  took  it  between  both  his,  holding  it  with  the  delicate 
care  one  accords  a  flower,  as  though  fearful  of  hurting  it. 

"Diana,  I'm  going  to  accept — what  you  offer  me.  Heaven 
knowa  I've  little  right  to !  There  are  .  .  .  worlds  between 


142  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

you  and  me.  .  .  .  But  if  a  man  dying  of  thirst  in  the  desert 
finds  a  pool — a  pool  of  crystal  water — is  he  to  be  blamed  if 
he  drinks — if  he  quenches  his  thirst  for  a  moment?  He 
knows  the  pool  is  not  his — never  can  be  his.  And  when 
the  rightful  owner  comes  along — why,  he'll  go  away,  back 
to  the  loneliness  of  the  desert  again.  But  he'll  always  re- 
member that  his  lips  have  once  drunk  from  the  pool — and 
been  refreshed." 

Diana  spoke  very  low  and  wistfully. 

"He — he  must  go  back  to  the  desert?" 

Errington  bent  his  head. 

"He  must  go  back,"  he  answered.  "The  gods  have  de- 
creed him  outcast  from  life's  pleasant  places;  he  is  ordained 
to  wander  alone — always." 

Diana  drew  her  hand  suddenly  away  from  his,  and  the 
hasty  movement  knocked  over  the  little  silver  salt-cellar 
on  the  table,  scattering  the  salt  on  the  cloth  between  them. 

"Oh !"  she  cried,  flushing  with  distress.  "I've  spilled  the 
salt  between  us — we  shall  quarrel." 

The  electricity  in  the  atmosphere  was  gone,  and  Erring- 
ton  laughed  gaily. 

"I'm  not  afraid.  See," — he  filled  their  glasses  with  wine 
— "let's  drink  to  our  compact  of  friendship." 

He  raised  his  glass,  clinking  it  gently  against  hers,  and 
they  drank.  But  as  Diana  replaced  her  glass  on  the  table, 
she  looked  once  more  in  a  troubled  way  at  the  little  heap  of 
salt  that  lay  on  the  white  cloth. 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  spilled  it,"  she  said  uncertainly.  "It's 
an  ill  omen.  Some  day  we  shall  quarrel." 

Her  eyes  were  grave  and  brooding,  as  though  some 
prescience  of  evil  weighed  upon  her. 

Errington  lifted  his  glass,  smiling. 

"Far  be  the  day,"  he  said  lightly. 

But  her  eyes,  meeting  his,  were  still  clouded  with  fore- 
boding. 


CHAPTEE  XIII 

THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY 

AS  the  day  fixed  for  her  recital  approached,  Diana  be- 
came a  prey  to  intermittent  attacks  of  nerves. 

"Supposing  I  should  fail  ?"  she  would  sometimes  exclaim, 
in  a  sudden  spasm  of  despair. 

Then  Baroni  would  reply  quite  contentedly : — 

"My  dear  Mees  Quentin,  you  will  not  fail.  God  has 
given  you  the  instrument,  and  I,  Baroni,  I  haf  taught  you 
how  to  use  it.  Gran  Dio!  Fail!"  This  last  accompanied 
by  a  snort  of  contempt. 

Or  it  might  be  Olga  Lermontof  to  whom  Diana  would  con- 
fide her  fears.  She,  equally  with  the  old  maestro,  derided 
the  possibility  of  failure,  and  there  was  something  about 
her  cool  assurance  of  success  that  always  sufficed  to  steady 
Diana's  nerves,  at  least  for  the  time  being. 

"As  I  have  you  to  accompany  me,"  Diana  told  her  one 
day,  when  she  was  ridiculing  the  idea  of  failure,  "I  may 
perhaps  get  through  all  right.  I  simply  lean  on  you  when 
I'm  singing.  I  feel  like  a  boat  floating  on  deep  water — 
almost  as  though  I  couldn't  sink." 

"Well,  you  can't."  Miss  Lermontof  spoke  with  convic- 
tion. "I  shan't  break  down — I  could  play  everything  you 
sing  blindfold ! — and  your  voice  is  ...  Oh,  well" — hastily 
— "I  can't  talk  about  your  voice.  But  I  believe  I  could 
forgive  you  anything  in  the  world  when  you  sing." 

Diana  stared  at  her  in  surprise.  She  had  no  idea  that 
Olga  was  particularly  affected  by  her  singing. 

"It's  rather  absurd,  isn't  it?"  continued  the  Russian,  a 
mocking  light  in  her  eyes  that  somehow  reminded  Diana 

143 


144  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

of  Max  Errington.  "But  there  it  is.  A  little  triangular 
box  in  your  throat  and  a  breath  of  air  from  your  lungs — 
and  immediately  you  hold  one's  heart  in  your  hands !" 

Alan  Stair  and  Joan  came  up  to  London  the  day  before 
that  on  which  the  recital  was  to  take  place,  since  Diana 
had  insisted  that  they  must  fix  their  visit  so  that  the  major 
part  of  it  should  follow,  instead  of  preceding  the  concert. 

"For" — as  she  told  them — "if  I  fail,  it  will  be  nice,  to 
have  you  two  dear  people  to  console  me,  and  if  I  succeed,  I 
shall  be  just  in  the  right  mood  to  take  a  holiday  and  play 
about  with  you  both.  Whereas  until  my  fate  is  sealed,  one 
way  or  the  other,  I  shall  be  like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head." 

But  when  the  day  actually  arrived  her  nervousness  com- 
pletely vanished,  and  she  drove  down  to  the  hall  composedly 
as  though  she  were  about  to  appear  at  her  fiftieth  concert 
rather  than  at  her  first.  Olga  Lermontof  regarded  her  with 
some  anxiety.  She  would  have  preferred  her  to  show  a 
little  natural  nervous  excitement  beforehand;  there  would 
be  less  danger  of  a  sudden  attack  of  stage-fright  at  the  last 
moment. 

Baroni  was  in  the  artistes'  room  when  they  arrived,  out- 
wardly cool,  but  inwardly  seething  with  mingled  pride  and 
excitement  and  vicarious  apprehension.  He  hurried  for- 
ward to  greet  them,  shaking  Diana  by  both  hands  and  then 
leading  her  up  to  the  great  French  pianist,  Madame  Berthe 
Louvigny. 

The  latter  was  a  tall,  grave-looking  woman,  with  a  pair 
of  the  most  lustrous  brown  eyes  Diana  had  ever  seen.  They 
seemed  to  glow  with  a  kind  of  inward  fire  under  the  wide 
brow  revealed  beneath  the  sweep  of  her  dark  hair. 

"So  thees  ees  your  worder-pupil,  Signor,"  she  said,  her 
smile  radiating  kindness  and  good-humour.  "Mademoiselle, 
I  weesh  you  all  the  success  that  I  know  Signor  Baroni  hopes 
for  you." 

She  talked  very  rapidly,  with  a  strong  foreign  accent,  and 
her  gesture  was  so  expressive  that  one  felt  it  was  almost 
superfluous  to  add  speech  to  the  quick,  controlled  movement. 


THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY  145 

Hands,  face,  shoulders — she  seemed  to  speak  with  her  whole 
body,  yet  without  conveying  any  impression  of  restlessness. 
There  was  not  a  single  meaningless  movement;  each  added 
point  to  the  rapid  flow  of  speech,  throwing  it  into  vivid  re- 
lief like  the  shading  of  a  picture. 

While  she  was  still  chatting  to  Diana,  a  slender  man  with 
bright  hair  tossed  back  over  a  finely  shaped  head  came  into 
the  artistes'  room,  carrying  in  his  hand  a  violin-case  which 
he  deposited  on  the  table  with  as  much  care  as  though  it 
were  a  baby.  He  shook  hands  with  Olga  Lermontof,  and 
then  Baroni  swept  him  into  his  net. 

"Kirolski,  let  me  present  you  to  Miss  Quentin.  She  will 
one  day  stand  amongst  singers  where  you  stand  amongst 
the  world's  violinists." 

Kirolski  bowed,  and  glanced  smilingly  from  Baroni  to 
Diana. 

"I've  no  doubt  Miss  Quentin  will  do  more  than  that,"  he 
said.  "A  friend  of  mine  heard  her  sing  at  Miss  de  Ger- 
vais'  reception  not  long  ago,  and  he  has  talked  of  nothing 
else  ever  since.  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  you,  Miss  Quen- 
tin." And  he  bowed  again. 

Diana  was  touched  by  the  simple,  unaffected  kindness  of 
the  two  great  artistes  who  were  to  assist  at  her  recital.  It 
surprised  her  a  little;  she  had  anticipated  the  disparaging, 
almost  inimical  attitude  towards  a  new  star  so  frequently 
credited  to  professional  musicians,  and  had  steeled  herself 
to  meet  it  with  indifference.  She  forgot  that  when  you 
are  at  the  top  of  the  tree  there  is  little  cause  for  envy  or 
heart-burning,  and  graciousness  becomes  an  easy  habit.  It 
is  in  the  struggle  to  reach  the  top  that  the  ugly  passions 
leap  into  life. 

Presently  there  came  sounds  of  clapping  from  the  body 
of  the  hall;  some  of  the  audience  were  growing  impatient, 
and  the  news  that  there  was  a  packed  house  filtered  into 
the  artistes'  room.  Almost  as  in  a  dream  Diana  watched 
Kirolski  lift  his  violin  from  its  cushiony  bed  and  run  his 
fingers  lightly  over  the  strings  in  a  swift  arpeggio.  Then 


146  THE  SPLENDID  EOLLY 

he  tightened  his  bow  and  rubbed  the  resin  along  its  length 
of  hair,  while  Olga  Lermontof  looked  through  a  little  pile 
of  music  for  the  duet  for  violin  and  piano  with  which  the 
recital  was  to  commence. 

The  outbreaks  of  clapping  from  in  front  grew  more  per- 
sistent, culminating  in  a  veritable  roar  of  welcome  as  Kirol- 
ski  led  the  pianist  on  to  the  platform.  Then  came  a  breath- 
less, expectant  silence,  broken  at  last  by  the  stately  melody 
of  the  first  movement. 

To  Diana  it  seemed  as  though  the  duet  were  very  quickly 
over,  and  although  the  applause  and  recalls  were  persistent, 
no  encore  was  given.  Then  she  saw  Olga  Lermontof  mount- 
ing the  platform  steps  preparatory  to  accompanying  Kirol- 
ski's  solo,  and  with  a  sudden  violent  reaction  from  her  calm 
composure  she  realised  that  the  following  item  on  the  pro- 
gramme must  be  the  first  group  of  her  own  songs. 

For  an  instant  the  room  swayed  round  her,  then  with  a 
little  gasp  she  clutched  Baroni's  arm. 

"I  can't  do  it!  ...  I  can't  do  it!"  Her  voice  was  shak- 
ing, and  every  drop  of  colour  had  drained  away  from  her 
face. 

Baroni  turned  instantly,  his  eyes  full  of  concern. 

"My  dear,  but  that  is  nonsense.  You  cannot  help  doing 
it — you  know  those  songs  inside  out  and  upside  down.  You 
neeol  haf  no  fear.  Do  not  think  about  it  at  all.  Trust 
your  voice — it  will  sing  what  it  knows." 

But  Diana  still  clung  helplessly  to  his  arm,  shivering  from 
head  to  foot,  and  Madame  de  Louvigny  hurried  across  the 
room  and  joined  her  assurances  to  those  of  the  old  maestro. 
She  also  added  a  liqueur-glass  of  brandy  to  her  soothing, 
encouraging  little  speeches,  but  Diana  refused  the  former 
with  a  gesture  of  repugnance,  and  seemed  scarcely  to  hear 
the  latter.  She  was  dazed  by  sheer  nervous  terror,  and 
stood  there  with  her  hands  tightly  clasped  together,  her 
body  rigid  and  taut  with  misery. 

Baroni  was  nearly  demented.  If  she  should  fail  to  re- 
gain her  nerve  the  whole  concert  would  be  a  disastrous  fiasco. 


THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY  14T 

Possible  headlines  from  the  morrow's  newspapers  danced 
before  his  eyes:  "NERVOUS  COLLAPSE  OF  Miss  DIANA 
QUENTIN,"  "SIGNOR  BARONI'S  NEW  PEIMA  DONNA  FAILS 
TO  MATERIALISE." 

"Diavolo!"  he  exclaimed  distractedly.  "But  what  shall 
we  do  ?  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

"What  is  the  matter  2" 

At  the  sound  of  the  cool,  level  tones  the  little  agitated 
group  of  three  in  the  artistes'  room  broke  asunder,  and 
Baroni  hurried  towards  the  newcomer. 

"Mr.  Errington,  we  are  in  despair "  And  with  a 

gesture  towards  Diana  he  briefly  explained  the  predicament. 

Max  nodded,  his  keen  eyes  considering  the  shrinking  fig- 
ure leaning  against  the  wall. 

"Don't  worry,  Baroni,"  he  said  quietly.  "I'll  pull  her 
round."  Then,  as  a  burst  of  applause  crashed  out  from 
the  hall,  he  whispered  hastily:  "Get  Kirolski  to  give  an 
encore.  It  will  allow  her  a  little  more  time." 

Baroni  nodded,  and  a  minute  or  two  later  the  audience 
was  cheering  the  violinist's  reappearance,  whilst  Errington 
strode  across  the  room  to  Diana's  side. 

"How  d'you  do?"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  exactly 
as  though  nothing  in  the  world  were  the  matter.  "I  thought 
you'd  allow  me  to  come  round  and  wish  you  luck,  so  here 
I  am." 

He  spoke  in  such  perfectly  normal,  everyday  tones  that 
unconsciously  Diana's  rigid  muscles  relaxed  and  she  ex- 
tended her  hand  in  response. 

"I'm  feeling  sick  with  fright,"  she  replied,  giving  him  a 
wavering  smile. 

Max  laughed  easily. 

"Of  course.  Otherwise  you  wouldn't  be  the  artiste  that 
you  are.  But  it  will  all  go  the  moment  you're  on  the  plat- 
form." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  faint  hope  in  her  eyes. 

"Do  you  really  think  so  ?"  she  whispered. 


148  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"I'm  sura  It  always  does,"  lie  lied  cheerfully.  "I'll 
tell  you  who  is  far  more  nervous  than  you  are,  and  that's 
the  Rector.  Miss  Stair  and  Jerry  were  almost  forcibly 
holding  him  down  in  his  seat  when  I  left  them.  He's  dis- 
posed to  bolt  out  of  the  hall  and  await  results  at  the  hotel." 

Diana  laughed  outright. 

"How  like  him !     Poor  Pobs !" 

"You'd  better  give  him  a  special  smile  when  you  get  on 
the  platform  to  reassure  him,"  continued  Max,  his  blue 
«yes  smiling  down  at  her. 

The  violin  solo  had  drawn  to  a  close — Kirolski  had  al- 
ready returned  a  third  time  to  bow  his  acknowledgments 
— and  Errington  was  relieved  to  see  that  the  look  of  strain 
had  gone  out  of  her  face,  although  she  still  appeared  rather 
pale  and  shaken. 

One  or  two  friends  of  the  violinist's  were  coming  in  at 
the  door  of  the  artistes'  room  as  Olga  Lermontof  preceded 
Mm  down  the  platform  steps.  There  was  a  little  confusion, 
the  sound  of  a  fall,  and  simultaneously  some  one  inad- 
vertently pushed  the  door  to.  The  next  minute  the  accom- 
panist was  the  centre  of  a  small  crowd  of  anxious,  question- 
ing people.  She  had  tripped  and  stumbled  to  her  knees  on 
the  threshold  of  the  room,  and,  as  she  instinctively  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  save  herself,  the  door  had  swung  back  trap- 
ping two  of  her  fingers  in  the  hinge. 

A  hubbub  of  dismay  arose.  Olga  was  white  with  pain, 
.and  her  hand  was  so  badly  squeezed  and  bruised  that  it  was 
quite  obvious  she  would  be  unable  to  play  any  more  that 
day. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Miss  Quentin,"  she  murmured  faintly. 

In  her  distress  about  the  accident,  Diana  had  for  the  mo- 
ment overlooked  the  fact  that  it  would  affect  her  person- 
ally, but  now,  as  Olga's  words  reminded  her  that  the  ac- 
companist on  whom  she  placed  such  utter  reliance  would  be 
forced  to  cede  her  place  to  a  substitute,  her  former  nervous- 
ness returned  with  redoubled  force.  It  began  to  look  as 


THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOli  BY  149 

though  she  would  really  be  unable  to  appear,  and  Baroni 
wrung  his  hands  in  despair. 

It  was  a  moment  for  speedy  action.  The  audience  were 
breaking  into  impatient  clapping,  and  from  the  back  of 
the  hall  came  an  undertone  of  stamping,  and  the  sound  of 
umbrellas  banging  on  the  floor.  Errington  turned  swiftly 
to  Diana. 

"Will  you  trust  me  with  the  accompaniments?"  he  eaid, 
his  blue  eyes  fixed  on  hers. 

"You?"  she  faltered. 

"Yes.  I  swear  I  won't  fail  you."  His  voice  dropped  to 
a  lower  note,  but  his  dominating  eyes  still  held  her.  "See, 
you  offered  me  your  friendship.  Trust  me  now.  Let  me 
'stand  by,'  as  a  friend  should." 

There  was  an  instant's  pause,  then  suddenly  Diana  bent 
her  head  in  acquiescence. 

"Thank  heaven !  thank  heaven !"  exclaimed  Baroni,  wring- 
ing Max's  hand.  "You  haf  saved  the  situation,  Mr.  Er- 
rington." 

A  minute  later  Diana  found  herself  mounting  the  plat- 
form steps,  her  hand  in  Max's.  His  close,  firm  clasp  stead- 
ied and  reassured  her.  Again  she  was  aware  of  that  curious 
sense  of  well-being,  as  of  leaning  on  some  sure,  unfailing 
strength,  which  the  touch  of  his  hand  had  before  inspired. 

As  he  led  her  on  to  the  platform  she  met  his  eyes,  full  of 
a  kind  good-comradeship  and  confidence. 

"All  right  ?"  he  whispered  cheerfully. 

A  little  comforting  warmth  crept  about  her  heart.  She 
was  not  alone,  facing  all  those  hundreds  of  curious,  critical 
eyes  in  the  hall  below;  there  was  a  friend  "standing  by." 

She  nodded  to  him  reassuringly,  suddenly  conscious  of 
complete  self-mastery.  She  no  longer  feared  those  ranks 
of  upturned  faces,  row  upon  row,  receding  into  shadow  at 
the  further  end  of  the  hall,  and  she  bowed  composedly  in 
response  to  the  applause  that  greeted  her.  Then  she  heard 
Max  strike  the  opening  chord  of  the  song,  and  a  minute 


150  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

the  big  concert-hall  was  thrilling  to  the  matchless  beauty 
of  her  voice,  as  it  floated  out  on  to  the  waiting  stillness. 

The  five  songs  of  the  group  followed  each  other  in  quick 
succession,  the  clapping,  that  broke  out  between  each  of  them 
only  checking  so  that  the  next  one  might  be  heard,  but  when 
the  final  number  had  been  given,  and  the  last  note  had 
drifted  tenderly  away  into  silence,  the  vast  audience  rose  to 
its  feet  almost  as  one  man,  shouting  and  clapping  and  wav- 
ing in  a  tumultuous  outburst  of  enthusiasm. 

Diana  stood  quite  still,  almost  frightened  by  the  uproar, 
until  Max  touched  her  arm  and  escorted  her  off  the  plat- 
form. 

In  the  artistes'  room  every  one  crowded  round  her  pour- 
ing out  congratulations.  Baroni  seized  both  her  hands  and 
kissed  them;  then  he  kissed  her  cheek,  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 
And  all  the  time  came  the  thunder  of  applause  from  the 
auditorium,  beating  up  in  steady,  rhythmic  waves  of  sound. 

"Go! — Go  back,  my  child,  and  bow."  Baroni  impelled 
her  gently  towards  the  door.  "Gran  Dio!  What  a  suc- 
cess !  .  .  .  What  a  voice  of  heaven !" 

Rather  nervously,  Diana  mounted  the  platform  once  more, 
stepping  forward  a  little  shyly ;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and 
her  wonderful  eyes  shone  like  grey  stars.  A  fillet  of  pale 
green  leaves  bound  her  smoke-black  hair,  and  the  slender, 
girlish  figure  in  its  sea-green  gown,  touched  here  and  there 
with  gold  embroidery,  reminded  one  of  spring,  and  the  young 
green  and  gold  of  daffodils. 

Instantly  the  applause  redoubled.  People  were  surging 
forward  towards  the  platform,  pressing  round  an  unfortu- 
nate usher  who  was  endeavouring  to  hand  up  a  sheaf  of  roses 
to  the  singer.  Diana  bowed,  and  bowed  again.  Then  she 
stooped  and  accepted  the  roses,  and  a  fresh  burst  of  clapping 
ensued.  A  wreath  of  laurel,  and  a  huge  bunch  of  white 
heather,  for  luck,  followed  the  sheaf  of  roses,  and  finally, 
her  arms  full  of  flowers,  smiling,  bowing  still,  she  escaped 
from  the  platform. 


THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY  151 

Back  again  in  the  artistes'  room,  she  found  that  a  num- 
ber of  her  friends  in  front  had  come  round  to  offer  their 
congratulations.  Alan  Stair  and  Joan,  Jerry,  and  Adrienne 
de  Gervais  were  amongst  them,  and  Diana  at  once  became 
the  centre  of  a  little  excited  throng,  all  laughing  and  talk- 
ing and  shaking  her  by  the  hand.  Every  one  seemed  to  be 
speaking  at  once,  and  behind  it  all  still  rose  and  fell  the 
cannonade  of  shouts  and  clapping  from  the  hall. 

Four  times  Diana  returned  to  the  platform  to  acknowledge 
the  tremendous  ovation  which  her  singing  had  called  forth, 
and  at  length,  since  Baroni  forbade  an  encore  until  after  her 
second  group  of  songs,  Madame  de  Louvigny  went  on  to 
give  her  solo. 

"They  weel  not  want  to  hear  me — after  you,  Mees  Quen- 
tin,"  she  said  laughingly. 

But  the  British  public  is  always  very  faithful  to  its  fa- 
vourites, and  the  audience,  realising  at  last  that  the  new 
singer  was  not  going  to  bestow  an  encore,  promptly  exerted 
itself  to  welcome  the  French  pianist  in  a  befitting  manner. 

When  Diana  reappeared  for  her  second  group  of  songs 
the  excitement  was  intense.  Whilst  she  was  singing  a  pin 
could  have  been  heard  to  fall;  it  almost  seemed  as  though 
the  huge  concourse  of  people  held  its  breath  so  that  not  a 
single  note  of  the  wonderful  voice  should  be  missed,  and 
when  she  ceased  there  fell  a  silence — that  brief  silence,  like 
a  sigh  of  ecstasy,  which  is  the  greatest  tribute  that  any 
artiste  can  receive. 

Then,  with  a  crash  like  thunder,  the  applause  broke  out 
once  more,  and  presently,  reappearing  with  the  sheaf  of  roses 
in  her  hand,  Diana  sang  "The  Haven  of  Memory"  as  an 
encore. 

Let  me  remember, 

When  I  am  very  lonely, 
How   once  your  love 

But  crowned  and  blessed  me  only, 
Long  and  long  ago. 


152  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

The  plaintive  rhythm  died  away  and  the  clapping  which 
succeeded  it  was  quieter,  less  boisterous,  than  hitherto. 
Some  people  were  crying  openly,  and  many  surreptitiously 
wiped  away  a  tear  or  so  in  the  intervals  of  applauding.  The 
audience  was  shaken  by  the  tender,  sorrowful  emotion  of 
the  song,  its  big,  sentimental  British  heart  throbbing  to  tjie 
haunting  quality  of  the  most  beautiful  voice  in  Europe. 

Diana  herself  had  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  was  experienc- 
ing for  the  first  time  the  passionate  exultation  born  of  the 
knowledge  that  she  could  sway  the  hearts  of  a  multitude  by 
the  sheer  beauty  of  her  singing — an  abiding  recompense 
bestowed  for  all  the  sacrifices  which  art  demands  from  those 
who  learn,  her  secrets. 

Her  fingers,  gripping  with  unconscious  intensity  the  flow- 
ers she  held,  detached  a  white  rose  from  the  sheaf,  and  it 
had  barely  time  to  reach  the  floor  before  a  young  man  from 
the  audience,  eager-eyed,  his  face  pale  with  excitement, 
sprang  forward  and  snatched  it  up  from  beneath  her  feet. 

In  an  instant  there  was  an  uproar.  Men  and  women  lost 
their  heads  and  clambered  up  on  to  the  platform,  pressing 
round  the  singer,  besieging  her  for  a  spray  of  leaves  or  a 
flower  from  the  sheaf  she  carried.  Some  even  tried  to  se- 
cure a  bit  of  the  gold  embroidery  from  off  her  gown  by  way 
of  memento. 

"Oh,  please  .  .  .  please  ..." 

A  crowd  that  is  overwrought,  either  by  anger  or  enthusi- 
asm, is  a  difficult  thing  to  handle,  and  Diana  retreated  des- 
perately, frightened  by  the  storm  she  had  evoked.  One 
man  was  kneeling  beside  her,  rapturously  kissing  the  hem 
of  ner  gown,  and  the  eager,  excited  faces,  the  outstretched 
hands,  the  vision  of  the  surging  throng  below,  and  the  tu- 
mult and  clamour  that  filled  the  concert-hall  terrified  her. 

Suddenly  a  strong  arm  intervened  between  her  and  the 
group  of  enthusiasts  who  were  flocking  round  her,  and  she 
found  that  she  was  being  quietly  drawn  aside  into  safety. 
Max  Errington's  tall  form  had  interposed  itself  between 


153 

her  and  her  too  eager  worshippers.  With  a  little  gasp  of 
relief  she  let  him  lead  her  down  the  steps  of  the  platform 
and  back  into  the  comparative  calm  of  the  artistes'  room, 
while  two  of  the  ushers  hurried  forward  and  dispersed  the 
memento-seekers,  shepherding  them  back  into  the  hall  below, 
so  that  the  concert  might  continue. 

The  latter  part  of  the  programme  was  heard  with  at- 
tention, but  not  even  the  final  duo  for  violin  and  piano, 
exquisite  though  it  was,  succeeded  in  rousing  the  audience 
to  a  normal  pitch  of  fervour  again.  Emotion  and  enthusi- 
asm were  alike  exhausted,  and  now  that  Diana's  share  in  the 
recital  was  over,  the  big  assemblage  of  people  listened  to  the 
remaining  numbers  much  as  a  child,  tired  with  play,  may 
listen  to  a  lullaby — placidly  appreciative,  but  without  over- 
whelming excitement 

"Well,  what  did  I  tell  you?"  demanded  Jerry,  tri- 
umphantly, of  the  little  party  of  friends  who  gathered  to- 
gether for  tea  in  Diana's  sitting-room,  when  at  length  the 
great  event  of  the  afternoon  was  over.  "What  did  I  tell 
you?  ...  I  said  Diana  would  just  romp  past  the  post — 
all  the  others  nowhere.  And  behold !  It  came  to  pass." 

"It's  a  good  thing  Madame  Louvigny  and  Kirolski  can't 
hear  you,"  observed  Joan  sagely.  "They've  probably  got 
quite  nice  natures,  but  you'd  strain  the  forbearance  of  an 
early  Christian  martyr,  Jerry.  Besides,  you  needn't  be  so 
fulsome  to  Diana ;  it  isn't  good  for  her." 

Jerry  retorted  with  spirit,  and  the  two  drifted  into  a  pleas- 
ant little  wrangle — the  kind  of  sparring  match  by  which 
youths  and  maidens  frequently  endeavour  to  convince  them- 
selves, and  the  world  at  large,  of  the  purely  Platonic  nature 
of  their  sentiments. 

Bunty,  who  had  rejoiced  in  her  promised  seat  in  the  front 
row  at  the  concert,  was  hurrying  to  and  fro,  a  maid-servant 
in  attendance,  bringing  in  tea,  while  Mrs.  Lawrence,  who 
had  also  been  the  recipient  of  a  complimentary  ticket,  looked 
in  for  a  few  minutes  to  felicitate  the  heroine  of  the  day. 


154  THE  SPLEmiD  FOLLY 

She  mentally  patted  herself  on  the  back  for  the  discern- 
ment she  had  evinced  in  making  certain  relaxations  of  her 
stringent  rules  in  favour  of  this  particular  boarder.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  before  long  Miss  Quentin  would  be 
distinctly  a  "personage,"  shedding  a  delectable  effulgence 
upon  her  immediate  surroundings,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  was 
firmly  decided  that,  if  any  effort  of  hers  could  compass  it, 
those  surroundings  should  continue  to  be  No.  24  Brutton 
Square. 

Diana  herself  looked  tired  but  irrepressibly  happy.  Now 
that  it  was  all  over,  and  success  assured,  she  realised  how 
intensely  she  had  dreaded  the  ordeal  of  this  first  recital. 

Olga  Lermontof,  her  injured  hand  resting  in  a  sling, 
chaffed  her  with  some  amusement 

"I  suppose,  at  last,  you're  beginning  to  understand  that 
your  voice  is  really  something  out  of  the  ordinary,"  she 
said.  "Its  effect  on  the  audience  this  afternoon  is  a  bet- 
ter criterion  than  all  the  notices  in  to-morrow's  newspapers 
put  together." 

Diana  laughed. 

"Well,  I  hope  it  won't  make  a  habit  of  producing  that  ef- 
fect!" she  said,  pulling  a  little  face  of  disgust  at  the  recol- 
lection. "I  don't  know  what  would  have  happened  if  Mr. 
Errington  hadn't  come  to  my  rescue." 

Max  smiled  across  at  her. 

"You'd  have  been  torn  to  bits  and  the  pieces  distributed 
amongst  the  audience — like  souvenir  programmes — I  imag- 
ine," he  replied.  Then,  turning  towards  the  accompanist, 
he  continued:  "How  does  your  hand  feel  now,  Miss  Ler- 
montof ?" 

There  was  a  curious  change  in  his  voice  as  he  addressed 
the  Russian,  and  Diana,  glancing  quickly  towards  her,  sur- 
prised a  strangely  wistful  look  in  her  eyes  as  they  rested 
upon  Errington's  face. 

"Oh,  it  is  much  better.     I  shall  be  able  to  play  again  in 


THE  FRIEND  WHO  STOOD  BY  155 

a  few  days.  But  it  was  fortunate  you  were  at  the  concert 
to-day,  and  able  to  take  my  place." 

"So  you  approve  of  me — for  once?"  he  queried,  with  a 
rather  twisted  little  smile. 

Olga  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  searching 
his  face.  Then  she  said  very  deliberately: — 

"I  am  glad  you  were  able  to  play  for  Miss  Quentin." 

"But  you  won't  commit  yourself  so  far  as  to  say  that  I 
have  your  approval — even  once  ?" 

Miss  Lermontof  leaned  forward  impetuously. 

"How  can  I  ?"  she  said,  in  hurried  tones.  "It's  all  wrong 
— oh!  you  know  that  it's  all  wrong." 

Errington  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'm  afraid  we  can  never  see  eye  to  eye,"  he  answered. 
"Let  us,  then,  be  philosophical  over  the  matter  and  agree 
to  differ." 

Olga's  green  eyes  flamed  with  sudden  anger,  but  she  ab- 
stained from  making  any  reply,  turning  away  from  him 
abruptly. 

Diana,  whose  attention  had  been  claimed  by  the  Rector, 
had  not  caught  the  quickly  spoken  sentences  which  had 
passed  between  the  two,  but  she  was  puzzled  over  the  oddly 
yearning  look  she  had  surprised  in  Olga's  eyes.  There  had 
been  a  tenderness,  a  species  of  wistful  longing  in  her  gaze, 
as  she  had  turned  towards  Max  Errington,  which  tallied  ill 
with  the  bitter  incisiveness  of  the  remarks  she  let  fall  at 
times  concerning  him. 

"Well,  my  dear" — the  Rector's  voice  recalled  Diana's 
wandering  thoughts — "Joan  and  I  must  be  getting  back 
to  our  hotel,  if  we  are  to  be  dressed  in  time  for  the  dinner 
Miss  de  Gervais  is  giving  in  your  honour  to-night." 

Diana  glanced  at  the  clock  and  nodded. 

"Indeed  you  must,  Fobs  darling.  And  I  will  send  away 
these  other  good  people  too.  As  we're  all  going  to  meet 
again  at  dinner  we  can  bear  to  be  separated  for  an  hour  or 


156  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

80 — erven  Jerry  and  Joan,  I  suppose?"  she  added  whim- 
sically, in  a  lower  tone. 

"It's  invidious  to  mention  names,"  murmured  Stair,  "or 
I  might " 

Diana  laid  her  hand  lightly  across  his  mouth. 

"No,  you  mightn't,"  she  said  firmly.  "Put  on  your  coat 
and  that  nice  squashy  hat  of  yours,  and  trot  back  to  your 
hotel  like  a  good  Pobs." 

Stair  laughed,  looking  down  at  her  with  kind  eyes. 

"Very  well,  little  autocrat."  He  put  his  hand  under  her 
chin  and  tilted  her  face  up.  "I've  not  congratulated  you 
yet,  my  dear.  It's  a  big  thing  you've  done — captured  Lon- 
don in  a  day.  But  it's  a  bigger  thing  you'll  have  to  do." 

"You  mean  Paris — Vienna  ?" 

He  shook  his  head,  still  with  the  kind  smile  in  his  eyes. 
.  "No.  I  mean,  keep  me  the  little  Diana  I  love — don't 
let  me  lose  her  in  the  public  singer." 

"Oh,  Pobs!" — reproachfully.  "As  though  I  should  ever 
change!" 

"Not  deliberately — not  willingly,  I'm  sure.  But — suc- 
cess is  a  difficult  sea  to  swim." 

He  sighed,  kissed  her  upturned  face,  and  then,  with  a 
twist  of  his  shoulders,  pulled  on  his  overcoat  and  prepared 
to  depart. 

Success  is  exhilarating.  It  goes  to  the  head  like  wine, 
and  yet,  as  Diana  lay  in  bed  that  night,  staring  with  wide 
eyes  into  the  darkness,  the  memory  that  stood  out  in  vivid 
relief  from  amongst  the  crowded  events  of  the  day  was  not 
the  triumph  of  the  afternoon,  nor  the  merry  evening  which 
succeeded  it,  when  "the  coming  prima  donna"  had  been 
toasted  amid  a  fusillade  of  brilliant  little  speeches  and  light- 
hearted  laughter,  but  the  remembrance  of  a  pair  of  pas- 
sionate, demanding  blue  eyes  and  of  a  low,  tense  voice  say- 
ing:— 

"I  swear  I  won't  fail  you.     Let  me  'stand  by.' ' 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    FLAME    OF    LOVE 

DIANA'S  gaze  wandered  idly  over  the  blue  stretch  of 
water,  as  it  lay  beneath  the  blazing  August  sun,  while 
the  sea-gulls,  like  streaks  of  white  light,  wheeled  through 
the  shimmering  haze  of  the  atmosphere.  Her  hands  were 
loosely  clasped  around  her  knees,  and  a  little  evanescent 
smile  played  about  her  lips.  Behind  her,  the  great  red 
cliffs  of  Culver  Point  reared  up  against  the  sapphire  of  the 
sky,  and  she  was  thinking  dreamily  of  that  day,  nearly 
eighteen  months  ago,  when  she  had  been  sitting  in  the  self- 
same place,  leaning  against  the  self-same  rock,  whilst  a  grey 
waste  of  water  crept  hungrily  up  to  her  very  feet,  threaten- 
ing to  claim  her  as  its  prey.  And  then  Errington  had  come, 
and  straightway  all  the  danger  was  passed. 

Looking  back,  it  seemed  as  though  that  had  always  been 
the  way  of  things.  Some  menace  had  arisen,  either  by  land 
or  sea — or  even,  as  at  her  recital,  out  of  the  very  intensity 
of  feeling  which  her  singing  had  inspired — and  immediately 
Max  had  intervened  and  the  danger  had  been  averted. 

She  laid  her  hand  caressingly  on  the  sun-warmed  surface 
of  the  rock.  How  many  things  had  happened  since  she  had 
last  leaned  against  its  uncomfortable  excrescences !  She  felt 
quite  affectionately  towards  it,  as  one  who  has  journeyed 
far  may  feel  towards  some  old  landmark  of  his  youth  which 
he  finds  unaltered  on  his  return  from  wandering  in  strange 
lands.  The  immutability  of  things,  as  compared  with  the 
constant  fluctuation  of  life  and  circumstance,  struck  her 
poignantly.  Here  was  this  rock — cast  up  from  the  bowels 

157 


158  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

of  the  earth  thousands  of  years  ago  and  washed  by  the 
waves  of  a  million  tides — still  unchanged  and  changeless, 
while,  for  her,  the  face  of  the  whole  world  had  altered  in 
little  more  than  a  year! 

From  a  young  girl-student,  one  insignificant  person 
among  scores  of  others  similarly  insignificant,  she  had  be- 
come a  prominent  personality,  some  one  in  whom  even  the 
great,  busy,  hurrying  world  paused  to  take  an  interest,  and 
of  whom  the  newspapers  wrote  eulogistic  notices,  heralding 
her  as  the  coming  English  prima,  donna.  She  felt  rather 
like  a  mole  which  has  been  working  quietly  in  the  dark, 
tunnelling  a  passage  for  itself,  unseen  and  unsuspected,  and 
which  has  suddenly  emerged  above  the  surface  of  the  earth, 
much  to  its  own — and  every  one  else's — astonishment! 

Then,  too,  how  utterly  changed  were  her  relations  with 
Max  Errington!  At  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance 
he  had  held  himself  deliberately  aloof,  but  since  that  eve- 
ning at  Adrienne  de  Gervais'  house,  when  they  had  formed 
a  compact  of  friendship,  he  had,  apparently,  completely 
blotted  out  from  his  mind  the  remembrance  of  the  obstacle, 
whatever  it  might  be,  which  he  had  contended  must  render 
any  friendship  between  them  out  of  the  question. 

And  during  these  last  few  months  Diana  had  gradually 
come  to  know  the  lofty  strain  of  idealism  which  ran  through 
the  man's  whole  nature.  Passionate,  obstinate,  unyielding 
— he  could  be  each  and  all  in  turn,  but,  side  by  side  with 
these  exterior  characteristics,  there  ran  a  streak  of  almost 
feminine  delicacy  of  perception  and  ideality  of  purpose. 
Diana  had  once  told  him,  laughingly,  that  he  was  of  the 
stuff  of  which  martyrs  were  made  in  the  old  days  of  perse- 
cution, and  in  this  she  had  haphazard  lit  upon  the  funda- 
mental force  that  shaped  his  actions.  The  burden  which 
fate,  or  his  own  deeds,  might  lay  upon  his  shoulders,  that 
he  would  bear,  be  it  what  it  might. 

"Everything's  got  to  be  paid  for,"  he  had  said  one  day. 
"It's  inevitable.  So  what's  the  use  of  jibing  at  the 
price  ?" 


THE  FLAME  OF  LOVE  159 

Diana  wondered  whether  the  price  of  that  mysterious 
something  which  lay  in  his  past,  and  which  not  even  inti- 
mate friendship  had  revealed  to  her,  would  mean  that  this 
comradeship  must  always  remain  only  that — and  never  any- 
thing more? 

A  warm  flush  mounted  to  her  face  as  the  unbidden  thought 
crept  into  her  mind.  Errington  had  been  down  at  Crailing 
most  of  the  summer,  staying  at  Red  Gables,  and  during  the 
long,  lazy  days  they  had  spent  together,  motoring,  or  sailing, 
or  tramping  over  Dartmoor  with  the  keen  moorland  air,  like 
sparkling  wine,  in  their  nostrils,  it  seemed  as  though  a  deeper 
note  had  sounded  than  merely  that  of  friendship. 

And  yet  he  had  said  nothing,  although  his  eyes  had  spoken 
— those  vivid  blue  eyes  which  sometimes  blazed  with  a  white 
heat  of  smouldering  passion  that  set  her  heart  racing  madly 
within  her. 

She  flinched  shyly  away  from  her  own  thoughts,  pulling 
restlessly  at  the  dried  weed  which  clung  about  the  surface 
of  the  rock.  A  little  brown  crab  ran  out  from  a  crevice, 
and,  terrified  by  the  big  human  hand  which  he  espied  med- 
dling with  the  clump  of  weed  and  threatening  to  interfere 
with  the  liberty  of  the  subject,  skedaddled  sideways  into  the 
safety  of  another  cranny. 

The  hurried  rush  of  the  little  live  thing  roused  Diana  from 
her  day-dreams,  and  looking  up,  she  saw  Max  coming  to  her 
across  the  sands. 

She  watched  the  proud,  free  gait  of  the  tall  figure  with 
appreciation  in  her  eyes.  There  was  something  very  indi- 
vidual and  characteristic  about  Max's  walk — a  suggestion 
as  of  immense  vitality  held  in  check,  together  with  a  certain 
air  of  haughty  resolution  and  command. 

"I  thought  I  might  find  you  here,"  he  said,  when  they 
had  shaken  hands. 

"Did  you  want  me  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  curious  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"I  always  want  you,  I  think,"  he  said  simply. 

<rWell,  you  seem  to  have  a  faculty  for  always  turning 


160  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

up  when  7  want  you,"  she  replied.  "I  was  just  thinking 
how  often  you  had  appeared  in  the  very  nick  of  time.  Seri- 
ously"— her  voice  took  on  a  graver  note — "I  feel  I  can't 
ever  repay  you — you've  come  to  my  help  so  often." 

"There  is  a  way,"  he  said,  very  low,  and  then  fell  silent. 

"Tell  me,"  she  urged  him,  smilingly.  "I  like  to  pay  my 
debts." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  Diana,  suddenly  nervous  and 
puzzled,  continued  a  little  breathlessly: — 

"Have  I — have  I  offended  you  ?  I — I  thought" — her  lips 
quivered — "we  had  agreed  to  be  friends." 

Max  was  silent  a  moment.     Then  he  said  slowly: — 

"I  can't  keep  that  compact." 

Diana's  heart  contracted  with  a  sudden  fear. 

"Can't  keep  it?"  she  repeated  dully.  She  could  not  pic- 
ture her  life — no — robbed  of  this  friendship! 

"No."  His  hands  hung  clenched  at  his  sides,  and  he 
stood  staring  at  her  from  beneath  bent  browa,  his  mouth 
set  in  a  straight  line.  It  was  as  though  he  were  holding 
himself  under  a  rigid  restraint,  against  which  something 
within  him  battled,  striving  for  release. 

All  at  once  his  control  snapped. 

"I  love  you !  .  .  .  God  in  heaven !  Haven't  you  guessed 
it?" 

The  words  broke  from  him  like  a  bitter  cry — the  cry  of 
a  heart  torn  in  twain  by  love  and  thwarted  longing.  Diana 
felt  the  urgency  of  its  demand  thrill  through  her  whole 
being. 

"Max  .  .  ." 

It  was  the  merest  whisper,  reaching  his  ears  like  the  touch 
of  a  butterfly's  wing — hesitantly  shy,  and  honey-sweet  with 
the  promise  of  summer. 

The  next  instant  his  arms  were  round  her  and  he  was 
holding  her  as  though  he  would  never  let  her  go,  passion- 
ately kissing  the  soft  mouth,  so  close  beneath  his  own.  He 
lifted  her  off  her  feet,  crushing  her  to  him,  and  Diana,  the 
woman  in  her  definitely,  vividly  aroused  at  last,  clung  to 


THE  FLAME  OF  LOVE  161 

him,  yielding,  but  half-terrified  by  the  tempest  of  emotion 
she  had  waked. 

"My  beloved!  .  .  .  My  smtl!" 

His  voice  was  vehement  with  the  love  and  passion  at 
length  unleashed  from  bondage;  his  kisses  hurt  her.  There 
was  something  torrential,  overwhelming,  in  his  imperious 
Wooing.  He  held  her  with  the  fierce,  possessive  grip  of 
primitive  man  claiming  the  chosen  woman  as  his  mate. 

She  struggled  faintly  against  him. 

"Ah!  Max — Max.  .  .  .  Let  me  go.  You're  frighten- 
ing me." 

She  heard  him  draw  his  breath  hard,  and  then  slowly, 
reluctantly,  as  though  by  a  sheer  effort  of  will,  he  set  her 
down.  He  was  white  to  the  lips,  and  his  eyes  glowed  like 
blue  flame  in  their  pallid  setting. 

"Frighten  you !"  he  repeated  hoarsely.  "You  don't  know 
what  love  means — you  English." 

Diana  stared  at  him. 

"'You  English!'  What — what  are  you  saying?  Mas 
aren't  you  English  after  all  ?" 

He  threw  back  his  head  with  a  laugh. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  English.  But  I'm  something  else  as  well. 
.  .  .  There's  warmer  blood  in  my  veins,  and  I  can't  love 
like  an  Englishman.  Oh,  Diana,  heart's  beloved,  let  me 
teach  you  what  love  is !" 

Impetuously  he  caught  her  in  his  arms  again,  and  once 
more  she  felt  the  storm  of  his  passion  sweep  over  her  as  he 
rained  fierce  kisses  on  eyes  and  throat  and  lips.  For  a 
space  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  world  were  blotted  out  and 
there  were  only  they  two  alone  together — shaken  to  the  very 
foundations  of  their  being  by  the  tremendous  force  of  the 
whirlwind  of  love  which  had  engulfed  them. 

When  at  length  he  released  her,  all  her  reserves  were 
down. 

"Max  .  .  .  Max  ...  I  love  you!" 

The  confession  fell  from  her  lips  with  a  timid,  exquisite 


162  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

abandon.    He  was  her  mate  and  she  recognised  it    He  had 
conquered  her. 

Presently  he  put  her  from  him,  very  gently,  but  de- 
cisively. 

"Diana,  heart's  dearest,  there  is  something  more — some- 
thing I  have  not  told  you  yet." 

She  looked  at  him  with  sudden  apprehension  in  her  eyes. 

"Max!  .  .  .  Nothing — nothing  that  need  come  between 
us?" 

Memories  of  the  past,  of  all  the  incomprehensible  episodes 
of  their  acquaintance — his  refusal  to  recognise  her,  his  re- 
luctance to  accept  her  friendship — came  crowding  in  upon 
her,  threatening  the  destruction  of  her  new-found  happiness. 

"Not  if  you  can  be  strong — not  if  you'll  trust  me."  He 
looked  at  her  searchingly. 

"Trust  you?  But  I  do  trust  you.  Should  I  have  .  .  . 
Oh,  Max!"  the  warm  colour  dyed  her  face  from  chin  to 
brow — "Could  I  love  you  if  I  didn't  trust  you  ?" 

There  was  a  tender,  almost  compassionate  expression  in 
his  eyes  as  he  answered,  rather  sadly : — 

"Ah,  my  dear,  we  don't  know  what  'trust'  really  means 
until  we  are  called  upon  to  give  it.  ...  And  I  want  so 
much  from  you !" 

Diana  slipped  her  hand  confidently  into  his. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him.  "I  don't  think  I 
shall  fail  you." 

He  was  silent  for  a  while,  wondering  if  the  next  words 
he  spoke  would  set  them  as  far  apart  as  though  the  previous 
hour  had  never  been.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"Do  you  believe  that  husbands  and  wives  should  have  no 
secrets  from  one  another  ?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Diana  had  never  really  given  the  matter  consideration 
— never  formulated  such  a  question  in  her  mind.  But  now, 
in  the  light  of  love's  awakening,  she  instinctively  knew  the 


THE  FLAME  OF  LOVE  163 

answer  to  it.  Her  opinion  leaped  into  life  fully  formed; 
she  was  aware,  without  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  of  her  own 
feelings  on  the  subject. 

"Certainly  they  shouldn't,"  she  answered  promptly. 
"Why,  Max,  that  would  be  breaking  the  very  link  that 
binds  them  together — their  oneness  each  with  the  other. 
You  think  that,  too,  don't  you?  Why — why  did  you  ask 
me?"  A  premonition  of  evil  assailed  her,  and  her  voice 
trembled  a  Httle. 

"I  asked  you  because — because  if  you  marry  me  you  will 
have  to  face  the  fact  that  there  is  a  secret  in  my  life  which 
I  cannot  share  with  you — something  I  can't  tell  you  about." 
Then,  as  he  saw  the  blank  look  on  her  face,  he  went  on  rap- 
idly: "It  will  be  the  only  thing,  beloved.  There  shall  be 
nothing  else  in  life  that  will  not  be  'ours,'  between  us,  shared 
by  us  both.  I  swear  it!  ...  Diana,  I  must  make  you  un- 
derstand. It  was  because  of  this — this  secret — that  I  kept 
away  from  you.  You  couldn't  understand — oh!  I  saw  it 
in  your  face  sometimes.  You  were  hurt  by  what  I  did  and 
said,  and  it  tortured  me  to  hurt  you — to  see  your  lip  quiver, 
your  eyes  suddenly  grow  misty,  and  to  know  it  was  I  who 
had  wounded  you,  I,  who  would  give  the  last  drop  of  blood 
in  my  body  to  save  you  pain." 

There  was  a  curious  stricken  expression  on  the  face  Diana 
turned  towards  him. 

"So  that  was  it!" 

"Yes,  that  was  it.  I  tried  to  put  you  out  of  my  life, 
for  I'd  no  right  to  ask  you  into  it  And  I've  failed!  I 
can't  do  without  you" — his  voice  gathered  intensity — "I 
want  you — body  and  soul  I  want  you.  And  yet — a  secret 
between  husband  and  wife  is  a  burden  no  man  should  ask  a 
woman  to  bear." 

When  next  Diana  spoke  it  was  in  a  curiously  cold,  col- 
lected voice.  She  felt  stunned.  A  great  wall  seemed  to  be 
rising  up  betwixt  herself  and  Max;  all  her  golden  visions 
for  the  future  were  falling  about  her  in  ruins. 


164:  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"You  are  right,"  she  said  slowly.  "No  man  should  ask 
— that — of  his  wife." 

Errington's  face  twisted  with  pain. 

"I  never  meant  to  let  you  know  I  cared,"  he  answered. 
"I  fought  down  my  love  for  you  just  because  of  that  And 
then — it  grew  too  strong  for  me.  .  .  .  My  God !  If  you 
knew  what  it's  been  like — to  be  near  you,  with  you,  con- 
stantly, and  yet  to  feel  that  you  were  as  far  removed  from 
me  as  the  sun  itself.  Diana — beloved — can't  you  trust  me 
over  this  one  thing?  Isn't  your  love  strong  enough  for 
that?" 

She  turned  on  him  passionately. 

"Oh,  you  are  unfair  to  me — cruelly  unfair !  You  ask  me 
to  trust  you !  And  your  very  asking  implies  that  you  can- 
not trust  me!" 

There  was  bitter  anger  in  her  voice. 

"I  know  it  looks  like  that,"  he  said  wearily.  "And  I 
can't  explain.  I  can  only  ask  you  to  believe  in  me  and 
trust  ma  I  thought  .  .  .  perhaps  .  .  .  you  loved  me 
enough  to  do  it."  His  mouth  twitched  with  a  little  smile, 
half  sad,  half  ironical.  "My  usual  presumption,  I  sup- 
pose." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  after  a  moment  asked 
abruptly : — 

"Does  this — this  secret  concern  only  you  ?" 

"That  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  can't  answer  any  questions. 
If- — if  you  come  to  me,  it  must  be  in  absolute  blind  trust." 
He  paused,  his  eyes  entreating  her.  "Is  it  ...  too  much 
to  ask?" 

Diana  was  silent,  looking  away  from  him  across  the 
water.  The  sun  slipped  behind  a  cloud,  and  a  grey  shadow 
spread  like  a  blight  over  the  summer  sea.  It  lay  leaden 
and  dull,  tufted  with  little  white  crests  of  foam. 

The  man  and  woman  stood  side  by  side,  motionless,  un- 
responsiva  It  waa  as  though  a  sword  had  suddenly  de- 
scended, cleaving  them  asunder. 


THE  FLAME  OF  LOVE  165 

Presently  she  heard  him  mutter  in  a  low  tone  of  an- 
guish : — 

"So  this — this,  too — must  be  added  to  the  price  1" 

The  pain  in  his  voice  pulled  at  her  heart.  She  stretched 
out  her  hands  towards  him. 

"Max!     Give  me  time!" 

He  wheeled  round,  and  the  tense  look  of  misery  in  his 
face  hurt  her  almost  physically. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  he  asked  hoarsely. 

"I  must  have  time  to  think.  Husband  and  wife  ought 
to  be  one.  What — what  happiness  can  there  be  if  ...  if 
we  marry  .  .  .  like  this?" 

He  bent  his  head. 

"None — unless  you  can  have  faith.  There  can  be  no 
happiness  for  us  without  that." 

He  took  a  sudden  step  towards  her. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear !     I  love  you  so !" 

Diana  began  to  cry  softly — helpless,  pathetic,  weeping, 
like  a  child's. 

"And — and  I  thought  we  were  so  happy,"  she  sobbed. 
"Now  it's  all  spoiled  and  broken.  And  you've  spoilt  it!" 

"Don't!"  he  said  unsteadily.  "Don't  cry  like  that.  I 
can't  stand  it." 

He  made  an  instinctive  movement  to  take  her  in  his 
arms,  but  she  slipped  aside,  turning  on  him  in  sudden,  pas- 
sionate reproach. 

"Why  did  you  try  and  make  me  love  you  when  you  knew 
...  all  this?  I  was  quite  happy  before  you  came — oh, 
so  happy!" — with  a  sudden  yearning  recollection  of  the 
days  of  una wakened  girlhood.  "If — if  you  had  let  me 
alone,  I  should  have  been  happy  still." 

The  unthinking  selfishness  of  youth  rang  in  her  voice, 
asserting  its  infinite  demand  for  the  joy  and  pleasure  of  life. 

"And  I?"  he  said,  very  low.  "Does  my  unhappiness 
count  for  nothing?  I'm  paying  too.  God  knows,  I  wish 
we  had  never  met." 


166  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Never  to  have  met!  Not  to  have  known  all  that  those 
months  of  friendship  and  a  single  hour  of  love  had  held! 
The  words  brought  a  sudden  awakening  to  Diana — a  new, 
wonderful  knowledge  that,  cost  what  they  might  in  bitter- 
ness and  future  pain,  she  would  rather  bear  the  cost  than 
know  her  life  emptied  of  those  memories. 

She  had  ceased  crying.  After  a  few  moments  she  spoke 
with  a  gentle,  wistful  composure. 

"I  was  wrong,  Max.  You're  not  to  blame — you  couldn't 
help  it  any  more  than  I  could." 

"I  might  have  gone  away — kept  away  from  you,"  he 
said  tonelessly. 

A  faint,  wintry  little  smile  curved  her  lips. 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't." 

"Diana!"  He  sprang  forward  impetuously.  "Do  you 
mean  that  ?" 

She  nodded  slowly. 

"Yes.  Even  if — if  we  can't  ever  marry,  we've  had  .  .  « 
to-day." 

A  smouldering  fire  lit  itself  in  the  man's  blue  eyes.  He 
had  spoken  but  the  bare  truth  when  he  had  said  that  warmer 
blood  ran  in  his  veins  than  that  of  the  cold  northern  peo- 
ples. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  his  voice  tense.     "We've  had  to-day." 

Diana  trembled  a  little.  The  memory  of  that  fierce,  wild 
love-making  of  his  rushed  over  her  once  more,  and  the  prim- 
itive woman  in  her  longed  to  yield  to  its  mastery.  But  the 
cooler  characteristics  of  her  nature  bade  her  pause  and 
weigh  the  full  significance  of  marrying  a  man  whose  life 
was  tinged  with  mystery,  and  who  frankly  acknowledged 
that  he  bore  a  secret  which  must  remain  hidden,  even  from 
his  wife. 

It  would  be  taking  a  leap  in  the  dark,  and  Diana  shrank 
from  it 

"I  must  have  time  to  think,"  she  repeated.  "I  can't  de- 
cide to-day." 


THE  FLAME  OF  LOVE  167 

"No,"  he  said,  "you're  right.  I've  known  that  all  the 
time,  only — only" — his  voice  shook — "the  touch  of  you,  the 
nearness  of  you,  blinded  me."  He  paused.  "Don't  keep 
me  waiting  for  your  answer  longer  than  you  can  help,  Di- 
ana," he  added,  with  a  quiet  intensity. 

"You'll  g&  away  from  Crailing?"  she  asked  nervously. 

He  smiled  a  little  sadly. 

"Yes,  I'll  go  away.  I'll  leave  you  quite  free  to  make  your 
decision,"  he  replied. 

She  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  knew  that  if  he  were 
to  remain  at  Crailing,  if  they  were  to  continue  seeing  each, 
other  almost  daily,  there  oould  be  but  one  end  to  the  mat- 
ter— her  conviction  that  no  happiness  could  result  from 
such  a  marriage  would  go  by  the  board.  It  could  not  stand 
against  the  breathless  impetuosity  of  Max's  love-making — 
not  when  her  own  heart  was  eager  and  aching  to  respond. 

"Thank  you,  Max,"  she  said  simply,  extending  her  hand. 

He  put  it  aside,  drawing  her  into  his  embrace. 

"Beloved,"  he  said,  and  now  there  was  no  passion,  no 
fierceness  of  desire  in  his  voice,  only  unutterable  tender- 
ness. "Beloved,  please  God  you  will  find  it  in  your  heart 
to  be  good  to  ma  All  my  thoughts  are  yours,  but  for  that 
one  thing  over  which  I  need  your  faith.  ...  I  think  no 
man  ever  loved  a  woman  so  utterly  as  I  love  you.  And 
oh !  little  white  English  rose  of  my  heart,  I'd  never  ask  more 
than  you  could  give.  Love  isn't  all  passion.  It's  tender- 
ness and  shielding  and  service,  dear,  as  well  as  fire  and 
flame.  A  man  loves  his  wife  in  all  the  little  ways  of  daily 
life  as  well  as  in  the  big  ways  of  eternity." 

He  stooped  his  head,  and  a  shaft  of  sunlight  nickered 
across  his  bright  hair.  Diana  watched  it  with  a  curious 
sense  of  detachment  Very  gently  he  laid  her  hands  against 
his  lips,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  swinging  away  from 
her  across  the  stretch  of  yellow  sand,  leaving  her  alone  once 
more  with  the  sea  and  the  sky  and  the  wheeling  gulls. 


CHAPTEK  XV 
DIANA'S  DECISION 

MAX  had  been  gone  a  week — a  week  of  distress  and 
miserable  indecision  for  Diana,  racked  as  she  was 
between  her  love  and  her  conviction  that  marriage  under 
the  only  circumstances  possible  would  inevitably  bring  un- 
happiness.  Over  and  above  this  fear  there  was  the  instinc- 
tive recoil  she  felt  from  Errington's  demand  for  such  blind 
faith.  Her  pride  rebelled  against  it.  If  he  loved  her  and 
had  confidence  in  her,  why  couldn't  he  trust  her  with  his 
secret?  It  was  treating  her  like  a  child,  and  it  would  be 
wrong — all  wrong — she  argued,  to  begin  their  married  life 
with  concealment  and  secrecy  for  its  foundation. 

One  morning  she  even  wrote  to  him,  telling  him  defi- 
nitely either  that  he  must  trust  her  altogether,  or  that  they 
must  part  irrevocably.  But  the  letter  was  torn  up  the  same 
afternoon,  and  Diana  went  to  bed  that  night  with  her  de- 
cision still  untaken. 

For  several  nights  she  had  slept  but  little,  and  once  again 
she  passed  long  hours  tossing  feverishly  from  side  to  side 
of  the  bed  or  pacing  up  and  down  her  room,  love  and  pride 
fighting  a  stubborn  battle  within  her.  Had  Max  remained 
at  Crailing,  love  would  have  gained  an  easy  victory,  but, 
true  to  his  promise,  he  had  gone  away,  leaving  her  to  make 
her  decision  free  and  untrammelled  by  his  influence. 

Diana's  face  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  the  mental 
struggle  through  which  she  was  passing.  Dark  shadows  lay 
beneath  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks,  even  in  so  short  a  time, 
had  hollowed  a  little.  She  was  irritable,  too,  and  unlike 

168 


DIANA'S  DECISION  169 

herself,  and  at  last  Stair,  whose  watchful  eyes  had  noted 
all  these  things,  though  he  had  refrained  from  comment, 
taxed  her  with  keeping  him  outside  her  confidence. 

"Can't  I  help,  Di?"  he  asked,  laying  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  twisting  her  round  so  that  she  faced  him. 

The  quick  colour  flew  into  her  cheeks.  For  a  moment 
she  hesitated,  while  Stair,  releasing  his  hold  of  her,  dropped 
into  a  chair  and  busied  himself  filling  and  lighting  his 
pipe. 

"Well  ?"  he  queried  at  last,  smiling  whimsically.  "Won't 
you  give  me  an  old  friend's  right  to  ask  impertinent  ques- 
tions?" 

Impulsively  she  yielded. 

"You  needn't,  Fobs.     I'll  tell  you  all  about  it" 

When  she  had  finished,  a  long  silence  ensued.  Not  that 
Stair  was  in  any  doubt  as  to  what  form  his  advice  should 
take — idealist  that  he  was,  there  did  not  seem  to  him  to  be 
any  question  in  the  matter.  He  only  hesitated  as  to  how 
he  could  best  word  his  counsel. 

At  last  he  spoke,  very  gently,  his  eyes  lit  with  that  inner 
radiance  which  gave  such  an  arresting  charm  of  expres- 
sion to  his  face. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "it  seems  to  me  that  if  you  love  him 
you  needs  must  trust  him.  'Perfect  love  casteth  out  fear.' ' 

Diana  shook  her  head. 

"Mightn't  you  reverse  that,  Fobs,  and  say  that  he  would 
trust  me — if  he  loves  me?" 

"No,  not  necessarily."  Alan  sucked  at  his  pipe.  "He 
knows  what  his  secret  is,  and  whether  it  is  right  or  wrong 
for  you  to  share  it.  You  haven't  that  knowledge.  And 
that's  where  your  trust  must  come  in.  You  have  to  believe 
in  him  enough  to  leave  it  to  him  to  decide  whether  you 
ought  to  be  told  or  not  Have  you  no  confidence  in  his 
judgment  ?" 

"I  don't  think  husbands  and  wives  should  have  secrets 
from  one  another,"  protested  Diana  obstinately. 


170  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Does  he  propose  to  have  any  other  than  this  one?" 

"No." 

"Then  I  don't  see  that  you  need  complain.  The  pres- 
ent and  the  future  are  yours,  but  you've  no  right  to  demand 
the  post  as  well.  And  this  secret,  whatever  it  may  be,  be- 
longs to  the  past." 

"As  far  as  I  can  see  it  will  be  cropping  up  in  the  future 
as  well,"  said  Diana  ruefully.  "It  seems  to  be  a  'continued 
in  our  next'  kind  of  mystery." 

Stair  laughed  boyishly. 

"It  should  add  a  zest  to  life  if  that's  the  case,"  he  re- 
torted. 

Diana  was  silent  a  moment.     Then  she  said  suddenly : — 

"Fobs,  what  am  I  to  do  ?" 

Instantly  Stair  became  grave  again. 

"My  dear,  do  you  love  him?" 

Diana  nodded,  her  eyes  replying. 

"Then  nothing  else  matters  a  straw.  If  you  love  him 
enough  to  trust  him  with  the  whole  of  the  rest  of  your  life, 
you  can  surely  trust  him  over  a  twopenny-halfpenny  little 
secret  which,  after  all,  has  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with 
you.  If  you  can't,  do  you  know  what  it  looks  like?" 

She  regarded  him  questioningly. 

"It  looks  as  though  you  suspected  the  secret  of  being  a 
disgraceful  one — something  of  which  Max  is  ashamed  to 
tell  you.  Do  you"— sharply— "think  that?" 

"Of  course  I  don't!"  she  burst  out  indignantly. 

"Then  why  trouble?  Possibly  the  matter  concerns  some 
one  else  besides  himself,  and  he  may  not  be  at  liberty  to 
tell  you  anything — he  might  have  a  dozen  different  reasons 
for  keeping  his  own  counsel.  And  the  woman  who  loves 
him  and  is  ready  to  be  his  wife  is  the  first  to  doubt  and 
distrust  him !  Diana,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself. 
If  my  wife" — his  voice  shook  a  little — "had  ever  doubted 
me — no  matter  how  black  things  might  have  looked  against 
me — I  think  it  would  have  broken  my  heart." 


DIANA'S  DECISION  171 

Diana's  head  drooped  lower  and  lower  as  he  spoke,  and 
presently  her  hand  stole  out,  seeking  his.  In  a  moment  it 
Spas  taken  and  held  in  a  close  and  kindly  clasp. 

"I'll — I'll  marry  him,  Fobs,"  she  whispered. 

So  it  came  about  that  when,  two  days  later,  Max  took 
his  way  to  24  Brutton  Square,  the  gods  had  better  gifts  in 
store  for  him  than  he  had  dared  to  hope. 

He  was  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down  her  little  sitting- 
room  when  she  entered  it,  and  she  could  see  that  his  face 
bore  traces  of  the  last  few  days'  anxiety.  There  were  new 
lines  about  his  mouth,  and  his  eyes  were  so  darkly  shadowed 
as  to  seem  almost  sunken  in  their  sockets. 

"You  have  come  back !"  he  said,  stepping  eagerly  towards 
her.  "Diana" — there  was  a  note  of  strain  in  his  voice — 
"which  is  it?  Yes— or  no?" 

She  held  out  her  hands. 

"It's— it's  'yes,'  Max." 

A  stifled  exclamation  broke  from  him,  almost  like  a  sob. 
He  folded  her  in  his  arms  and  laid  his  lips  to  hers. 

"My  beloved!  .  .  .  Oh,  Diana,  if  you  could  guesa  the 
agony — the  torture  of  the  last  ten  days!"  And  he  leaned 
his  cheek  against  her  hair,  and  stood  silently  for  a  little 
space. 

Presently  fear  overcame  him  again — quick  fear  lest  she 
should  ever  regret  having  given  herself  to  him. 

"Heart's  dearest,  have  you  realised  that  it  will  be  very 
hard  sometimes?  You  will  ask  me  to  explain  things — and 
I  shan't  be  able  to.  Is  your  trust  big  enough — great  enough 
for  this?" 

Diana  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder. 

"I  love  you,"  she  answered  steadily. 

"Do  you  forget  the  shadow?  It  is  there  still,  dogging 
my  steps.  Not  even  your  love  can  alter  that." 

For  a  moment  Diana  rose  to  the  heights  of  her  woman- 
hood. 


172 


THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 


"If  there  must  be  a  shadow,"  she  said,  "we  will  walk  in 
it  together." 

"But — don't  you  see? — I  shall  know  what  it  is.  To  you 
it  will  always  be  something  unknown,  hidden,  mysterious. 
Child!  Child!  I  wonder  if  I  am  right  to  let  you  join 
your  life  to  mine !" 

But  Diana  only  repeated: — 

"I  love  you." 

And  at  last  he  flung  all  thoughts  of  warning  and  doubt 
aside,  and  secure  in  that  reiterated  "I  love  you !"  yielded  to 
the  unutterable  joy  of  the  moment. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BARONl's   OPINION  OF   MATRIMONY 

PER  Dio!  What  is  this  you  tell  me?  That  you  are 
to  be  married?  .  .  .  My  dear  Mees  Quentin,  please 
put  all  such  thoughts  of  foolishness  out  of  your  mind.  You 
are  consecrated  to  art.  The  young  man  must  find  another 
bride." 

It  was  thus  that  Carlo  Baroni  received  the  news  of  Di- 
ana's engagement — at  first  with  unmitigated  horror,  then 
sweeping  it  aside  as  though  it  were  a  matter  of  no  conse- 
quence whatever. 

Diana  laughed,  dimpling  with  amusement  at  the  maes- 
tro's  indignation.  Now  that  she  had  given  her  faith,  re- 
fusing to  allow  anything  to  stand  between  her  and  Max,  she 
was  so  supremely  happy  that  she  felt  she  could  afford  to 
laugh  at  such  relatively  small  obstacles  as  would  be  raised 
by  her  old  singing-master. 

"I'm,  afraid  the  'young  man'  wouldn't  agree  to  that,"  she 
returned  gaily.  "He  would  say  you  must  find  another 
pupil." 

Baroni  surveyed  her  with  anxiety. 

"You  are  not  serious?"  he  queried  at  last. 

"Indeed  I  am.  I'm  actually  engaged — now,  at  this  mo- 
ment— and  we  propose  to  get  married  before  Christmas." 

"But  it  is  impossible!  Giusto  Cielof  But  impossible!" 
reiterated  the  old  man.  "Mees  Quentin,  you  cannot  haf 
understood.  Perhaps,  in  my  anxiety  that  you  should  strain 
every  nerve  to  improve,  I  haf  not  praised  you  enough — 
and  so  you  haf  not  understood.  Leesten,  then.  You  haf 
a  voice  than  which  there  is  not  one  so  good  in  the  whole 


174  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

of  Europe.  It  is  superb — marvellous — the  voice  of  the  cen- 
tury. With  that  voice  you  will  haf  the  whole  world  at 
your  feet;  before  long  you  will  command  almost  fabulous 
fees,  and  more,  far  more  than  this,  you  can  interpret  the 
music  of  the  great  masters  as  they  themselves  would  wish  to 
hear  it.  Me,  Baroni,  I  know  it.  And  you  would  fling  such 
possibilities,  such  a  career,  aside  for  mere  matrimony!  It 
is  nonsense,  I  tell  you,  sheer  nonsense!" 

He  paused  for  breath,  and  Diana  laid  her  hand  deprecat- 
ingly  on  his  arm. 

"Dear  Maestro"  she  said,  "it's  good  of  you  to  tell  me 
all  this,  and — and  you  mustn't  think  for  one  moment  that 
I  ever  forget  all  you've  done  for  me.  It's  you  who've  made 
my  voice  what  it  is.  But  there  isn't  the  least  reason  why 
I  should  give  up  singing  because  I'm  going  to  be  married. 
I  don't  intend  to,  I  assure  you." 

"I  haf  no  doubt  you  mean  well.  But  I  haf  heard  other 
young  singers  say  the  same  thing,  and  then  the  husband 
— the  so  English  husband! — he  objects  to  his  wife's  appear- 
ing in  public,  and  presto  /  .  .  .  Away  goes  the  career !  No 
singer  should  marry  until  she  is  well  established  in  her 
profession.  You  are  young.  Marry  in  ten  years'  time  and 
you  shall  haf  my  blessing." 

"I  shall  want  your  blessing  sooner  than  that,"  laughed 
Diana.  "But  I'm  not  marrying  a  'so  English  husband' ! 
He's  only  partly  English,  and  he's  quite  willing  for  me  to 
go  on  singing." 

Baroni  regarded  her  seriously. 

"Is  that  so  ?  Good !  Then  I  will  talk  to  the  young  man, 
so  that  he  may  realise  that  he  is  not  marrying  just  Mees 
Dfana  Quentin,  but  a  voice — a  heaven-bestowed  voica 
What  is  his  name  ?" 

"You  know  him,"  she  answered  smilingly.  "It's  Max 
Errington." 

She  was  utterly  unprepared  for  the  effect  of  her  words. 
Baroni's  face  darkened  lite  a  stormy  sky,  and  his  eyes  lit- 


BARONI'S  OPINION  OF  MATRIMONY      175 

erally  blazed  at  her  from  beneath  their  penthouse  of  shaggy 
brow. 

"Max  Errington!  Donnerwetter !  But  that  is  the  worst 
of  all  I" 

Diana  stared  at  him  in  mute  amazement,  and,  despite 
herself,  her  heart  sank  with  a  sudden  desperate  apprehen- 
sion. What  did  it  mean?  Why  should  the  mere  mention 
of  Max's  name  have  roused  the  old  maestro  to  such  a  fever 
of  indignation? 

Presently  Baroni  turned  to  her  again,  speaking  more  com- 
posedly, although  little  sparks  of  anger  still  flickered  in  his 
eyes  ready  to  leap  into  flame  at  the  slightest  provocation. 

"I  haf  met  Mr.  Errington.  He  is  a  charming  man.  But 
if  you  many  him,  my  dear  Mees  Quentin — good-bye  to 
your  career  as  a  world-artiste,  good-bye  to  the  most  mar- 
vellous voice  that  the  good  God  has  ever  let  me  hear." 

"I  don't  see  why.  Max  thoroughly  understands  profes- 
sional life." 

"Nevertheless,  believe  me,  there  will — there  must  come 
a  time  when  Max  Errington's  wife  will  not  be  able  to  appear 
before  the  world  as  a  public  singer.  I  who  speak,  I  know." 

Diana  flashed  round  upon  him  suddenly. 

"You — you  know  his  secret?" 

"I  know  it." 

So,  then,  the  secret  which  must  be  hidden  from  his  wife 
was  yet  known  to  Carlo  Baroni!  Diana  felt  her  former 
resentment  surge  up  anew  within  her.  It  was  unfair — 
shamefully  unfair  for  Max  to  treat  her  in  this  way !  It  was 
making  a  mockery  of  their  lova 

Baroni's  keen  old  eyes  read  the  conflict  of  emotions  in 
her  face,  and  he  laid  his  finger  unerringly  upon  the  sore 
spot.  His  one  idea  was  to  prevent  Diana  from  marrying, 
to  guard  her — as  he  mentally  phrased  it — for  the  art  he 
loved  ao  well,  and  he  was  prepared  to  stick  at  nothing  that 
might  aid  his  cause. 

"So  he  has  not  told  you  ?"  he  said  slowly.  "Do  you  not 
think  it  strange  of  him  ?" 


176  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana's  breast  rose  and  fell  tumultuously.  Baroni  was 
turning  the  knife  in  the  wound  with  a  vengeance. 

"Maestro,  tell  me," — her  voice  came  unevenly — "tell  me. 
Is  it" — she  turned  her  head  away — "is  it  a  ...  shameful 
.  .  .  secret?" 

Inwardly  she  loathed  herself  for  asking  such  a  thing,  but 
the  words  seemed  dragged  from  her  without  her  own  voli- 
tion. 

Baroni  hesitated.  All  his  hopes  and  ambitions  centred 
round  Diana  and  her  marvellous  voice.  He  had  given  of 
his  best  to  train  it  to  its  present  perfection,  and  now  he 
saw  the  fruit  of  his  labour  about  to  be  snatched  from  him. 
It  was  more  than  human  nature  could  endure,  Errington 
meant  nothing  to  him,  Diana  and  her  voice  everything ;  and 
he  was  prepared  to  sacrifice  no  matter  whom  to  secure  her 
career  as  an  artiste.  By  implication  he  sacrificed  Er- 
rington. 

"It  is  not  possible  for  me  to  say  more.  But  be  advised, 
my  dear  pupil.  Out  of  my  great  love  for  you  I  say  it> — 
let  Max  Errington  go  his  way." 

And  with  those  words — sinister,  warning — ringing  in  her 
ears,  Diana  returned  to  Brutton  Square. 

But  Baroni  was  not  content  to  let  matters  remain  as  they 
stood,  trusting  that  his  warning  would  do  its  work.  He 
was  determined  to  leave  no  stone  unturned,  and  he  forthwith 
sought  out  Errington  in  his  own  house  and  deliberately 
broached  the  subject  of  his  engagement  to  Diana. 

Max  greeted  him  affectionately. 

"It's  a  long  while  since  you  honoured  me  with  a  visit," 
he  said,  shaking  hands.  "I  suppose" — laughingly — "you've 
come  to  congratulate  me  ?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"Far  from  it.     I  haf  come  to  ask  you  to  give  her  up." 

"To  give  her  up?"  repeated  Max,  in  undisguised  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes.  Mees  Quentin  is  not  for  marriage.  She  is  dedi- 
oated  to  Art." 


BARONI'S  OPINION  OF  MATRIMONY      177 

Max  smiled  indulgently. 

"To  Art?  Yes.  But  she's  for  me,  too,  thank  God! 
Dear  old  friend,  you  need  not  look  so  anxious  and  con- 
cerned. I've  no  wish  to  interfere  with  Diana's  profes- 
sional work.  You  shall  have  her  voice" — smiling — "I'll  be 
content  to  hold  her  heart" 

But  there  was  no  answering  smile  on  Baroni's  lipa. 

"Does  she  know — everything?"  he  asked  sternly. 

Max  shook  his  head. 

"No.  How  could  she?  ...  You  must  realise  the  im- 
possibility of  that,"  he  answered  slowly. 

"And  you  think  it  right  to  let  her  marry  you  in  igno- 
rance ?" 

Max  hesitated.     Then — 

"She  trusts  me,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Pish !  For  how  long  ?  .  .  .  When  she  sees  daily  under 
her  eyes  things  that  she  cannot  explain,  unaccountable 
things,  how  long  will  she  remain  satisfied,  I  ask  you  t  And 
then  will  begin  unhappiness." 

Errington  stiffened. 

"And  what  has  our — supposititious — unhappiness  to  do 
with  you,  Signor  Baroni  ?"  he  asked  haughtily. 

"Your  unhappiness  ?  Nothing.  It  is  the  price  you  must 
pay — your  inheritance.  But  hers?  Everything.  Tears, 
fretting,  vexation — and  that  beautiful  voice,  that  perfect 
organ,  may  be  impaired.  Think !  Think  what  you  are  do- 
ing! Just  for  your  own  personal  happiness  you  are  risk- 
ing the  voice  of  the  century,  the  voice  that  will  give  pleas- 
ure to  tens  of  thousands — to  millions.  You  are  committing 
a  crime  against  Art." 

Max  smiled  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Truly,  Maestro,  I  had  not  thought  of  it  like  that,"  he 
admitted.  "But  I  think  her  faith  in  me  will  carry  us 
through,"  he  added  confidently. 

"Never!     Never!     Women  are  not  made  like  that." 

"And  perhaps,  later  on,  if  things  go  well,  I  shall  be  able 
to  tell  her  all." 


178  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"And  much  good  that  will  do !  Diavolo!  When  the  time 
comes  that  things  go  well — if  it  ever  does  come " 

"It  will.     It  shall,"  said  Max  firmly. 

"Well,  if  it  does — I  ask  you,  can  she  then  continue  her 
life  as  an  artiste?" 

Max  reflected. 

"Yes,  if  I  remain  in  England — which  I  hope  to  do.  I 
counted  on  that  when  I  asked  her  to  marry  me.  I  think  I 
shall  be  able  to  arrange  it" 

"If!  If!  Are  you  going  to  hang  your  wife's  happiness 
upon  an  'if  ?"  Baroni  spoke  with  intense  anger.  "And 
'if  you  cannot  remain  in  England,  if  you  haf  to  go  back — 
there  ?  Can  your  wife  still  appear  as  a  public  singer  ?" 

"No,"  acknowledged  Max  slowly.     "I  suppose  not." 

"No!  Her  career  will  be  ruined.  And  all  this  is  the 
price  she  will  haf  to  pay  for  her — trust!  Give  it  up,  give  it 
up — set  her  free." 

Max  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  leaning  his  arms  wearily 
on  the  table,  and  stared  straight  in  front  of  him,  his  eyes 
dark  with  pain. 

"I  can't,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "Not  now.  I  meant 
to — I  tried  to — but  now  she  has  promised  and  I  can't  let 
her  go.  Good  God,  Maestro!" — a  sudden  ring  of  passion 
in  his  tones — "Must  I  give  up  everything?  Am  I  to  have 
nothing  in  the  world  ?  Always  to  be  a  tool  and  never  live 
an  individual  man's  life  of  my  own?" 

Baroni's  face  softened  a  little. 

"One  cannot  escape  one's  destiny,"  he  said  sadly.  "Che 
sard  sard.  .  .  .  But  you  can  spare — her.  Tell  her  the  truth, 
and  in  common  fairness  let  her  judge  for  herself — not  rush 
blindfold  into  such  a  web." 

Max  shook  his  head. 

"You  know  I  can't  do  that,"  he  replied  quietly. 

Baroni  threw  out  his  arms  in  despair. 

"I  would  tell  her  the  whole  truth  myself — but  for  the 
memory  of  one  who  is  dead."  Sudden  tears  dimmed  the 


BARONI'S  OPINION  OF  MATRIMONY      179 

fierce  old  eyes.  "For  the  sake  of  that  sainted  martyr — 
martyr  in  life  as  well  as  in  death — I  will  hold  my  peace." 

A  half-sad,  half-humorous  smile  flashed  across  Erring- 
ton's  face. 

"We're  all  of  us  martyrs — more  or  less,"  he  observed 
drily. 

"And  you  wish  to  add  Mees  Quentin  to  the  list?"  re- 
torted Baroni.  "Well,  I  warn  you,  I  shall  fight  against  it. 
I  will  do  everything  in  my  power  to  stop  this  marriage." 

Max  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I'm  sure  you  will,"  he  said,  smiling  faintly.  "But — 
forgive  me,  Maestro — I  don't  think  you  will  succeed." 

As  soon  as  Baroni  had  taken  his  departure,  Max  called 
a  taxi,  and  hurried  off  to  see  Adrienne  de  Gervais.  He 
had  arranged  to  talk  over  with  her  a  certain  scene  in  the 
play  he  was  now  writing  for  her,  and  which  was  to  be  pro- 
duced early  in  the  New  Year. 

Adrienne  welcomed  him  good-humouredly. 

"A  little  late,"  she  observed,  glancing  at  the  clock.  "But 
I  suppose  one  must  not  expect  punctuality  when  a  man's 
in  love." 

"I  know  I'm  late,  but  I  can  assure  you" — with  a  grim 
smile — "love  had  little  enough  to  do  with  it." 

Adrienne  looked  up  sharply,  struck  by  the  bitter  note  in 
his  voice. 

"Then  what  had?"  she  asked.  "What  has  gone  wrong, 
Max?  You  look  fagged  out." 

"Baroni  has  been  round  to  see  me — to  ask  me  to  break 
off  my  engagement."  He  laughed  shortly. 

"He  doesn't  approve,  I  suppose  ?" 

"That's  a  mild  way  of  expressing  his  attitude." 

Adrienne  was  silent  a  moment.  Then  she  spoke,  slowly, 
consideringly. 

"I  don't — approve — either.     It  isn't  right,  Max." 

He  bit  his  lip. 

"So  you — you,  too,  are  against  me?" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  impulsively. 


180  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Not  against  you,  Max !  Never  that !  How  could  I  be  ? 
.  .  .  But  I  don't  think  you're  being  quite  fair  to  Diana. 
You  ought  to  tell  her  the  truth." 

He  wheeled  round. 

"No  one  knows  better  than  you  how  impossible  that  is." 

"Don't  you  trust  her  then — the  woman  you're  asking  to 
be  your  wife?" 

The  tinge  of  irony  in  her  voice  brought  a  sudden  light  of 
anger  to  his  eyes. 

"That's  not  very  just  of  you,  Adrienne,"  he  said  coldly. 
"I  would  trust  her  with  my  life.  But  I  have  no  right  to 
pledge  the  trust  of  others — and  that's  what  I  should  be 
doing  if  I  told  her.  We  have  our  duty — you  and  I — and 
all  this  ...  is  part  of  it." 

Adrienne  hesitated. 

"Couldn't  you — ask  the  others  to  release  you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"What  right  have  I  to  ask  them  to  trust  an  English- 
woman with  their  secret — just  for  my  pleasure?" 

"For  your  happiness,"  corrected  Adrienne  softly. 

"Or  for  my  happiness  ?  My  happiness  doesn't  count  with 
them  one  straw." 

"It  does  with  me.  I  don't  see  why  she  shouldn't  be  told. 
Baroni  knows,  and  Olga — you  have  to  trust  them." 

"Baroni  will  be  silent  for  the  sake  of  the  dead,  and  Olga 
out  of  her  love — or  fear" — with  a  bitter  smile — "of  me." 

"And  wouldn't  Diana,  too,  be  silent  for  your  sake?" 

"My  dear  Adrienne" — a  little  irritably — "English- 
women are  so  frank — so  indiscreetly  trusting.  That's  where 
the  difficulty  lies,  and  I  dare  not  risk  it.  There's  too  much 
at  stake.  But  can  you  imagine  any  agent  they  may  have 
put  upon  our  track  surprising  her  knowledge  out  of  Olga  ?" 
He  laughed  contemptuously.  "I  fancy  not !  If  Olga  hadn't 
been  a  woman  she'd  have  made  her  mark  in  the  Diplomatic 
Service." 

"Yet  what  is  there  to  make  her  keep  faith  with  U8  ?"  said 
Adnenne  doubtfully.  "She  is  poor " 


BARONI'S  OPINION  OF  MATRIMONY      181 

"Her  own  doing,  that !" 

"True,  but  the  fact  remains.  And  those  others  would 
pay  a  fortune  for  the  information  she  could  give.  Besides, 
I  believe  she  frankly  hates  me." 

"Possibly.  But  she  would  never,  I  think,  allow  her  per- 
sonal feelings  to  override  everything  else.  After  all,  she 
was  one  of  us — is  still,  really,  though  she  would  gladly  dis- 
own the  connection." 

"Well,  when  you've  looked  at  every  aide  of  the  matter, 
we  only  come  back  to  the  same  point.  I  think  you're  act- 
ing wrongly.  You're  letting  Diana  pledge  herself  blindly, 
when  you're  not  free  to  give  her  the  confidence  a  man 
should  give  his  wife — when  you  don't  even  know — yet — 
how  it  may  all  end." 

Almost  Baroni's  very  words !     Max  winced. 

"No.  I  don't  know  how  it  will  end,  as  you  say.  But 
surely  there  will  come  a  time  when  I  shall  be  free  to  live 
my  own  life?" 

Adrienne  smiled  a  trifle  wistfully. 

"If  your  conscience  ever  lets  you,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Presently  she  resumed: — 

"I  never  thought,  when  you  first  told  me  about  your 
engagement,  that  the  position  of  affairs  need  make  any 
difference.  I  was  so  pleased  to  think  that  you  cared  for 
each  other !  And  now — where  will  it  all  end  ?  How  many 
lives  are  going  to  be  darkened  by  the  same  shadow?  Oh, 
it's  terrible,  Max,  terrible!" 

The  tears  filled  her  eyes. 

"Don't !"  said  Max  unsteadily.  "Don't !  I  know  it's  bad 
enough.  Perhaps  you're  right — I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken 
to  Diana.  I  hoped  things  would  right  themselves  even- 
tually, but  you  and  Baroni  have  put  another  complexion 
upon  matters.  It's  all  an  inextricable  tangle,  whichever  way 
one  looks  at  it — come  good  luck  or  bad!  ...  I  suppose 
I  was  wrong — I  ought  to  have  waited.  But  now  .  .  .  now 
.  .  .  Before  God,  Adrienne!  I  can't  give  her  up — not 
now!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

"WHOM   GOD   HATH    JOINED   TOGETHER" 

MAX  and  Diana  were  married  shortly  before  the  fol- 
lowing Christmas.  The  wedding  took  place  very 
quietly  at  Crailing,  only  a  few  intimate  friends  being  asked 
to  it.  For,  as  Max  pointed  out,  either  their  invitations 
must  be  limited  to  a  dozen  or  so,  or  else  Diana  must  resign 
herself  to  a  fashionable  wedding  in  town,  with  all  the  world 
and  his  wife  as  guests  at  the  subsequent  reception.  No 
middle  course  is  possible  when  a  well-known  dramatist  elects 
to  marry  the  latest  sensation  in  the  musical  world! 

So  it  was  in  the  tiny  grey  church  overlooking  the  sea 
that  Max  and  Diana  were  made  one,  with  the  distant  mur- 
mur of  the  waves  in  their  ears,  and  with  Alan  Stair  to  speak 
the  solemn  words  that  joined  their  lives  together,  and  when 
the  little  intimate  luncheon  which  followed  the  ceremony 
was  over,  they  drove  away  in  Max's  car  to  the  wild,  beau- 
tiful coast  of  Cornwall,  there  to  spend  the  first  perfect  days 
of  their  married  life. 

And  they  were  perfect  days!  Afterwards,  when  clouds 
had  dimmed  the  radiance  of  the  sun,  and  doubts  and  ugly 
questionings  were  beating  up  on  every  side,  Diana  had  al- 
ways that  radiant  fortnight  by  the  Cornish  sea — she  and 
Max  alone  together — to  look  back  upon. 

The  woman  whose  married  life  holds  sorrow,  and  who 
has  no  such  golden  memory  stored  away,  is  bereft  indeed! 

On  their  return  to  London,  the  Erringtons  established 
themselves  at  Lilac  Lodge,  a  charming  old-fashioned  house 
in  Hampstead,  where  the  creeper-clad  walls  and  great  bushes 
of  lilac  reminded  Diana  pleasantly  of  the  old  Rectory  at 

182 


"WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  TOGETHER''   183 

Crailing.  Jerry  made  one  of  the  household — "resident  sec- 
retary" as  he  proudly  termed  himself,  and  his  cheery,  good- 
humoured  presence  was  invaluable  whenever  difficulties 
arose. 

But  at  first  there  were  few,  indeed,  of  the  latter  to  con- 
tend with.  Owing  to  the  illness  of  an  important  member  of 
the  cast,  without  whose  services  Adrienne  declined  to  per- 
form, the  production  of  Max's  new  play,  "Mrs.  Fleming's 
Husband,"  was  delayed  until  the  autumn.  This  postpone- 
ment left  him  free  to  devote  much  more  of  his  time  to  his 
wife  than  would  otherwise  have  been  possible,  and  for  the 
first  few  months  after  their  marriage  it  seemed  as  though 
no  shadow  could  ever  fall  athwart  their  happiness. 

In  this  respect  Baroni's  prognostications  of  evil  had  failed 
to  materialise,  but  his  fears  that  marriage  would  interfere 
with  Diana's  musical  career  were  better  founded.  Quite 
easily  and  naturally  she  slipped  out  of  the  professional  life 
which  had  just  been  opening  its  doors  to  her.  She  felt  no 
inclination  to  continue  singing  in  public.  Max  filled  her 
existence,  and  although  she  still  persevered  with  her  musi- 
cal training  under  Baroni,  she  told  him  with  a  frank  en- 
joyment of  the  situation  that  she  was  far  too  happy  and 
enjoying  herself  far  too  much  to  have  any  desire  at  pres- 
ent to  take  up  the  arduous  work  of  a  public  singer! 

Baroni  was  immeasurably  disappointed,  and  not  all  Di- 
ana's assurances  that  in  a  year,  or  two  at  most,  she  would 
go  back  into  harness  once  more  sufficed  to  cheer  him. 

"A  year — two  years!"  he  exclaimed.  "Two  years  lost 
at  the  critical  time — just  at  the  commencement  of  your 
career!  Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Errington,  you  had  better  haf 
lost  four  years  later  on  when  you  haf  established  your- 
self." 

To  Max  himself  the  old  maestro  was  short  and  to  the  point 
when  chance  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  a  few  moments 
alone  with  him. 


184  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"You  haf  stolen  her  from  me,  Max  Errington — you.  haf 
broken  your  promise  that  she  should  be  free  to  sing." 

Max  responded  good-humouredly : — 

"She  is  free,  Maestro,  free  to  do  exactly  as  she  chooses. 
And  she  has  chosen — to  be  my  wife,  to  live  for  a  time  the 
pleasant,  peaceful  life  that  ordinary,  everyday  folk  may 
live,  who  are  not  rushed  hither  and  thither  at  the  call  of  a 
career.  Can  you  honestly  say  she  hasn't  chosen  the  better 
part?" 

Baroni  was  silent. 

"Don't  grudge  her  a  year  or  two  of  freedom,"  pursued 
Max.  You  know,  you  old  slave-driver,  you," — laughing 
— "that  it  is  only  because  you  want  her  for  your  beloved 
Art — because  you  want  her  voice!  Otherwise  you  would 
rejoice  in  her  happiness." 

"And  you — what  is  it  you  want?"  retorted  Baroni,  un- 
appeased.  "You  want  her  soul!  Whereas  I  would  give 
her  soul  wings  that  she  might  send  it  singing  forth  into  an 
enraptured  world." 

But  Baroni's  words  fell  upon  stony  ground,  and  Max  and 
Diana  went  their  way,  absorbed  in  one  another  and  in  the 
wonderful  happiness  which  love  had  brought  them. 

Thus  spring  slipped  away  into  summer,  and  the  season 
was  in  full  swing  when  fate  tossed  the  first  pebble  into  their 
unruffled  pool  of  joy. 

It  was  only  a  brief  paragraph,  sandwiched  in  between  the 
musical  notes  of  a  morning  paper,  to  which  Olga  Lermon- 
tof,  who  came  daily  to  Lilac  Lodge  to  practise  with  Diana, 
drew  the  latter's  attention.  The  paragraph  recalled  the  fact 
that  it  was  just  a  year  since  Miss  Quentin  had  made  her 
debut,  and  then  went  on  to  comment  lightly  upon  the  brief 
and  meteoric  character  of  her  professional  appearances. 

"Domesticity  should  not  have  claimed  Miss  Quentin"- 
eo  ran  the  actual  words.     "Hers  was  a  voice  the  like  of 
which  we  may  not  hear  again,  and  the  public  grudges  its 


"WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  TOGETHER"    185 

withdrawal.  Apropos,  we  had  always  thought  (until  cir- 
cumstances proved  us  hopelessly  wrong)  that  the  fortunate 
man,  whose  gain  has  been  such  a  loss  to  the  musical  world, 
seemed  born  to  write  plays  for  a  certain  charming  actress 
— and  she  to  play  the  part  which  he  assigned  her." 

Diana  showed  the  paragraph  to  Max,  who  frowned  as 
he  read  it,  and  finally  tore  the  newspaper  in  which  it  had 
appeared  across  and  across,  flinging  the  pieces  into  the 
grate. 

Then  he  turned  and  laid  his  hands  on  Diana's  shoulders, 
gazing  searchingly  into  her  face. 

"Have  you  felt — anything  of  what  that  paragraph  sug- 
gests?" he  demanded.  "Am  I  taking  too  much  from  you, 
Diana  ?  I  love  to  keep  you  to  myself — not  to  have  to  share 
you  with  the  world,  but  I  won't  stand  in  your  light,  or  hold 
you  back  if  you  wish  to  go — not  even" — with  a  wry  smile — 
"if  it  should  mean  your  absence  on  a  tour." 

"Silly  boy!"  Diana  patted  his  head  reprovingly.  "I 
don't  want  to  sing  in  public — at  least,  not  now,  not  yet. 
Later  on,  I  dare  say,  I  shall  like  to  take  it  up  again.  And  as 
for  leaving  you  and  going  on  tour" — laughingly — "the  lat- 
ter half  of  the  paragraph  should  serve  as  a  warning  to  me 
not  to  think  of  such  a  thing!" 

To  her  surprise  Max  did  not  laugh  with  her.  Instead,  he 
answered  coldly: — 

"I  hope  you  have  more  sense  than  to  pay  attention  to  what 
any  damned  newspaper  may  have  to  say  about  me — or  about 
Miss  de  Gervais  either." 

"Why,  Max,— Max " 

Diana  stared  at  him  in  dismay,  flushing  a  little.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  spoken  harshly  to  her  since  their  mar- 
riage. 

In  an  instant  he  had  caught  her  in  his  arms,  passionately 
repentant. 

"Dearest,  forgive  me!     It  was  only — only  that  you  are 


186  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

bound  to  read  such  things,  and  it  angered  me  for  a  moment. 
Miss  de  Gervais  and  I  see  too  much  of  each  other  to  escape 
all  comment." 

Diana  withdrew  herself  slowly  from  his  arms. 

"And — and  must  you  see  so  much  of  her  now  ?  Now  that 
we  are  married  ?"  she  asked,  rather  wistfully. 

"Why,  of  course.  We  have  so  many  professional  matters 
to  discuss.  You  must  be  prepared  for  that,  Diana.  When 
we  begin  rehearsing  'Mrs.  Fleming's  Husband,'  I  shall  be 
down  at  the  theatre  every  day." 

"Oh,  yes,  at  the  theatre.  But — but  you  go  to  see  Adrienne 
rather  often  now,  don't  you?  And  the  rehearsals  haven't 
begun  yet." 

Max  hesitated  a  moment.     Then  he  said  quietly: — 

"Dear,  you  must  learn  not  to  be  jealous  of  my  work. 
There  are  always — many  things — that  I  have  to  discuss 
with  Miss  de  Gervais." 

And  so,  for  the  time  being,  the  subject  dropped.  But 
the  shadow  had  flitted  for  a  moment  across  the  face  of  the 
sun.  A  little  cloud,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  had  shown 
itself  upon  the  horizon. 

In  July  the  Erringtons  left  town  to  spend  a  brief  holiday 
at  Crailing  Rectory,  and  on  their  return  the  preparations 
for  the  production  of  "Mrs.  Fleming's  Husband"  went  for- 
ward in  good  earnest. 

They  had  not  been  back  in  town  a  week  before  Diana 
realised  that,  as  the  wife  of  a  dramatist  on  the  eve  of  the 
production  of  a  play,  she  must  be  prepared  to  cede  her  prior 
right  in  her  husband  to  the  innumerable  people  who  claimed 
his  time  on  matters  relating  to  the  forthcoming  production, 
and,  above  all,  to  the  actress  who  was  playing  the  leading 
part  in  it 

And  it  was  in  respect  of  this  latter  demand  that  Diana 
found  the  matrimonial  shoe  begin  to  pinch.  To  her,  it 
seemed  as  though  Adrienne  were  for  ever  'phoning  Max  to 
come  and  see  her,  and  invariably  he  set  everything  else 


"WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  TOGETHER"   187 

aside — even  Diana  herself,  if  needs  be — and  obeyed  her 
behest. 

"I  can't  see  why  Adrienne  wants  to  consult  you  so  often," 
Diana  protested  one  day.  "She  is  perpetually  ringing  you 
up  to  go  round  to  Somervell  Street — or  if  it's  not  that,  then 
she  is  writing  to  you." 

Max  laughed  her  protest  aside. 

"Well,  there's  a  lot  to  consult  about,  you  see,"  he  said 
vaguely. 

"So  it  seems.  I  shall  be  glad  when  it  is  all  finished  and 
I  have  you  to  myself  again.  When  will  the  play  be  on  ?" 

"About  the  middle  of  October,"  he  replied,  fidgeting  rest- 
lessly with  the  papers  that  strewed  his  desk.  They  were 
talking  in  his  own  particular  den,  and  Diana's  eyes  ruefully 
followed  the  restless  gesture. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  slowly,  "you  want  me  to  go?" 

"Well" — apologetically — "I  have  a  lot  to  attend  to  this 
morning.  Will  you  send  Jerry  to  me — do  you  mind,  dear- 
est ?" 

"It  wouldn't  make  much  difference  if  I  did,"  she  re- 
sponded grimly,  as  she  went  towards  the  door. 

Max  looked  after  her  thoughtfully  in  silence.  When  she 
had  gone,  he  leaned  his  head  rather  wearily  upon  his  hand. 

"It's  better  so,"  he  muttered.  "Better  she  should  think 
it's  only  the  play  that  binds  me  to  Adrienne." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

/ 

THE    APPROACHING    SHADOW 

DIANA  gathered  up  her  songs  and  slowly  dropped  them 
into  her  music-case,  while  Baroni  stared  at  her  with 
a  puzzled,  brooding  look  in  his  eyes. 

At  last  he  spoke : — 

"You  are  throwing  away  the  great  gift  God  has  given 
you.  First,  you  will  take  no  more  engagements,  and  now 
— what  is  it  ?  Where  is  your  voice  ?" 

Diana,  conscious  of  having  done  herself  less  than  justice 
at  the  lesson  which  was  just  concluded,  shook  her  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  simply.  "I  don't  seem  able  to 
sing  now,  somehow." 

Baroni  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"You  are  fretting,"  he  declared.  "And  so  the  voice  suf- 
fers." 

"Fretting?  I  don't  know  that  I've  anything  to  fret 
about" — vaguely.  "Only  I  shall  be  glad  when  'Mrs.  Flem- 
ing's Husband'  is  actually  produced.  Just  now" — with  a 
rather  wistful  smile — "I  don't  seem  to  have  a  husband  to 
call  my  own.  Miss  de  Gervais  claims  so  much  of  his  time." 

Baroni's  brow  grew  stormy. 

"Mees  de  Gervais  ?  Of  course !  It  is  inevitable !"  he  mut- 
tered. "I  knew  it  must  be  like  that." 

Diana  regarded  him  curiously. 

"But  why?  Do — do  all  dramatists  have  to  consult  so 
much  with  the  leading  actress  in  the  play  ?" 

The  old  maestro  made  a  sweeping  gesture  with  his  arm, 
as  though  disavowing  any  knowledge  of  the  matter. 

188 


THE  APPROACHING  SHADOW  189 

"Do  not  ask  me !"  he  said  bitterly.  "Ask  Max  Errington 
• — ask  your  husband  these  questions." 

At  the  condemnation  in  his  voice  her  loyalty  asserted  it- 
self indignantly. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said  quickly.  "I  ought  not  to  have 
asked  you.  Good-bye,  signor." 

But  Diana's  loyalty  was  hard  put  to  it  to  fight  the  newly 
awakened  jealousy  that  was  stirring  in  her  heart,  and  it 
seemed  as  though  just  now  everything  and  everybody  com- 
bined to  add  fuel  to  the  fire,  for,  only  a  few  days  later,  when 
Miss  Lermontof  came  to  Lilac  Lodge  to  practise  with  Diana, 
she,  too,  added  her  quota  of  disturbing  comment. 

"You're  looking  very  pale,"  she  remarked,  at.  the  end  of 
the  hour.  "And  you're  shockingly  out  of  voice!  What's 
the  matter  ?" 

Then,  as  Diana  made  no  answer,  she  added  teasingly: 
"Matrimony  doesn't  seem  to  have  agreed  with  you  too  well. 
Doesn't  Max  play  the  devoted  husband  satisfactorily?" 

Diana  flushed. 

"You've  no  right  to  talk  like  that,  Olga,  even  in  jest," 
she  said,  with  "a  little  touch  of  matronly  dignity  that  sat 
rather  quaintly  and  sweetly  upon  her.  "I  know  you  don't 
like  Max — never  have  liked  him — but  please  recollect  that 
you're  speaking  of  my  husband." 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  replied  the  Russian,  coolly,  as 
she  drew  on  her  gloves.  "I  don't  dislike  him ;  but  I  do 
think  he  ought  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you.  As  you  say, 
he  is  your  husband" — pointedly. 

"Perfectly  frank  with  me?" 

Miss  Lermontof  nodded. 

"Yes." 

"He  has  been,"  affirmed  Diana. 

"Has  he,  indeed  ?  Have  you  over  asked  him" — she  paused 
significantly — "who  he  is?" 

"Who  he  is?"  Diana  felt  her  heart  contract.  What  new 
mystery  was  this  at  which  the  other  was  hinting  ? 


190  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Who  he  is?"  she  repeated.  "Why — why — what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

The  accompanist's  queer  green  eyes  narrowed  between 
their  heavy  lids. 

"Ask  him — that's  all,"  she  replied  shortly. 

She  drew  her  furs  around  her  shoulders  preparatory  to 
departure,  but  Diana  stepped  in  front  of  her,  laying  a  de- 
taining hand  on  her  arm. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded  hotly.  "Are  you 
implying  now  that  Max  is  going  about  under  a  false  name  ? 
I  hate  your  hints!  Always,  always  you've  tried  to  insinu- 
ate something  against  Max.  .  .  .  No!" — as  the  Russian  en- 
deavoured to  free  herself  from  her  clasp — "No !  You  shan't 
leave  this  house  till  you've  answered  my  question.  You've 
made' an  accusation  and  you  shall  prove  it — if  I  have  to 
bring  you  face  to  face  with  Max  himself !" 

"I've  made  no  accusation — merely  a  suggestion  that  you 
should  ask  him  who  he  is.  And  as  to  bringing  me  face  to 
face  with  him — I  can  assure  you" — there  was  an  inflection 
of  ironical  amusement  in  her  light  tones — "no  one  would  be 
less  anxious  for  such  a  denouement  than  Max  Errington 
himself.  Now,  good-bye;  think  over  what  I've  said.  And 
remember" — mockingly — "Adrienne  de  Gervais  is  a  bad 
friend  for  the  man  one  loves!" 

She  flitted  through  the  doorway,  and  Diana  was  left  to 
deal  as  best  she  might  with  the  innuendo  contained  in  her 
speech. 

"Adrienne  de  Gervais  is  a,  'bad  friend  for  the  man  one 
loves." 

The  phrase  seemed  to  crystallise  in  words  the  whole 
vague  trouble  that  had  been  knocking  at  her  heart,  and  she 
realised  suddenly,  with  a  shock  of  unbearable  dismay,  that 
she  was  jealous — jealous  of  Adrienne!  Hitherto,  she  had 
not  in  the  least  understood  the  feeling  of  depression  and 
malaise  which  had  assailed  her.  She  had  only  known  that 
she  felt  restless  and  discontented  when  Max  was  out  of  her 


THE  APPROACHING  SHADOW  191 

sight,  irritated  at  the  amount  of  his  time  which  Miss  de 
Gervais  claimed,  and  she  had  ascribed  these  things  to  the 
depth  of  her  love  for  him!  But  now,  with  a  sudden  flash 
of  insight,  engendered  by  the  Russian's  dexterous  sug- 
gestion, she  realised  that  it  was  jealousy,  sheer  primitive 
jealousy  of  another  woman  that  had  gripped  her,  and  her 
young,  wholesome,  spontaneous  nature  recoiled  in  horrified 
self-contempt  at  the  realisation. 

Pobs'  good  counsel  came  back  to  her  mind:  "It  seems 
to  me  that  if  you  love  him,  you  needs  must  trust  him."  Ah ! 
but  that  was  uttered  in  regard  to  another  matter — the  secret 
which  shadowed  Max's  life — and  she  had  trusted  him  over 
that,  she  told  herself.  This,  this  jealousy  of  another  woman, 
was  an  altogether  different  thing,  something  which  had 
crept  insidiously  into  her  heart,  and  woven  its  toils  about 
her  almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it. 

And  behind  it  all  there  loomed  a  new  terror.  Olga  Ler- 
montof  s  advice :  "Ask  him  who  he  is,"  beat  at  the  back  of 
her  brain,  fraught  with  fresh  mystery,  the  forerunner  of  a 
whole  host  of  new  suspicions. 

Secrecy  and  concealment  of  any  kind  were  utterly  alien 
to  Diana's  nature.  Impulsive,  warm-hearted,  quick-tem- 
pered, she  was  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  have  been 
thrust  by  an  unkind  fate  into  an  atmosphere  of  intrigue 
and  mystery.  She  was  like  a  pretty,  fluttering,  summer 
moth,  caught  in  the  gossamer  web  of  a  spider — terrified, 
struggling,  battling  against  something  she  did  not  under- 
stand, and  utterly  without  the  patience  and  strong  deter- 
mination requisite  to  free  herself. 

For  hours  after  Olga's  departure  she  fought  down  the 
temptation  to  follow  her  advice  and  question  her  husband. 
She  could  not  bring  herself  to  hurt  him — as  it  must  do  if  he 
guessed  that  she  distrusted  him.  But  neither  could  she 
conquer  the  suspicions  that  had  leaped  to  life  within  her. 
At  last,  for  the  time  being,  love  obtained  the  mastery — won 
the  first  round  of  the  struggle. 


192  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"I  will  trust  him,"  she  told  herself.  "And — and  whether 
I  trust  him  or  not,"  she  ended  up  defiantly,  "at  least  he 
shall  never  know,  never  see  it,  if — if  I  can't." 

So  that  it  was  a  very  sweet  and  repentant,  if  rather  wan, 
Diana  that  greeted  her  husband  when  he  returned  from 
the  afternoon  rehearsal  at  the  theatre. 

Max's  keen  -eyes  swept  the  white,  shadowed  face, 

"Has  Miss  Lermontof  been  here  to-day?"  he  asked  ab- 
ruptly. 

"Yes."  A  burning  flush  chased  away  her  pallor  as  she 
answered  his  question. 

"I  see." 

"You  see?" — nervously.    "What  do  you  see?" 

A  very  gentle  expression  came  into  Max's  eyes. 

"I  see,"  he  said  kindly,  "that  I  have  a  tired  wife.  You 
mustn't  let  Baroni  and  Miss  Lermontof  work  you  too  hard 
between  them." 

"Oh,  they  don't,  Max." 

"All  right,  then.  Only" — cupping  her  chin  in  his  hand 
and  turning  her  face  up  to  his — "I  notice  I  often  have  a 
somewhat  worried-looking  wife  after  one  of  Miss  Lermon- 
iof's  visits.  I  don't  think  she  is  too  good  a  friend  for  you, 
Diana.  Couldn't  you  get  some  one  else  to  accompany  you  ?" 

Diana  hesitated.  She  would  have  been  quite  glad  to 
dispense  with  Olga's  services  had  it  been  possible.  The 
Russian  was  for  ever  hinting  at  something  in  connection 
either  with  Max  or  Miss  de  Gervais;  to-day  she  had  but 
gone  a  step  further  than  usual. 

"Well  ?"  queried  Max,  reading  the  doubt  in  Diana's  eyes. 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  engage  any  one  else  to  accompany 
me,"  she  said  at  last.  "You  see,  Olga  is  Baroni's  chosen 
accompanist,  and — it  might  make  trouble." 

A  curious  expression  crossed  his  face. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  slowly.  "It  might — make  trouble,  as 
you  say.  Well,  why  not  ask  Joan  to  stay  with  you  for  a 
time — to  counterbalance  matters  2" 


THE  APPROACHING  SHADOW  193 

"Excellent  suggestion!"  exclaimed  Diana,  her  spirits  go- 
ing up  with  a  bound.  Joan  was  always  so  satisfactory  and 
cheerful  and  commonplace  that  she  felt  as  though  her  mere 
presence  in  the  house  would  serve  to  dispel  the  vague,  in- 
definable atmosphere  of  suspicion  that  seemed  closing  round 
her.  "I'll  write  to  her  at  once." 

"Yes,  do.  If  she  can  come  next  month,  she  will  be  here 
for  the  first  night  of  'Mrs.  Fleming's  Husband.'  r 

Diana  went  away  to  write  her  letter,  while  Max  remained 
pacing  thoughtfully  up  and  down  the  room,  tapping  rest- 
lessly with  his  fingers  on  his  chest  as  he  walked.  His  face 
showed  signs  of  fatigue — the  hard  work  in  connection  with 
the  production  of  his  play  was  telling  on  him — and  since 
the  brief  interview  with  his  wife,  a  new  look  of  anxiety,  an 
alert,  startled  expression,  had  dawned  in  his  eyes. 

He  seemed  to  be  turning  something  over  in  his  mind  as 
he  paced  to  and  fro.  At  last,  apparently,  he  came  to  a 
decision. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said  aloud.  "It's  a  possible  chance  of 
silencing  her." 

He  made  his  way  downstairs,  pausing  at  the  door  of  the 
library,  where  Diana  was  poring  over  her  letter  to  Joan. 

"I  find  I  must  go  out  again,"  he  said.  "But  I  shall  be 
back  in  time  for  dinner." 

Diana  looked  up  in  dismay. 

"But  you've  had  no  tea,  Max,"  she  protested. 

"Can't  stay  for  it  now,  dear." 

He  dropped  a  light  kiss  on  her  hair  and  was  gone,  while 
Diana,  flinging  down  her  pen,  exclaimed  aloud: — 

"It's  that  woman  again !  I  know  it  is!  She's  rung  him 
up!" 

And  it  never  dawned  upon  her  that  the  fact  that  she 
had  unthinkingly  referred  to  Adrienne  de  Gervais  as  "that 
woman"  marked  a  turning-point  in  her  attitude  towards 
her. 

Meanwhile  Errington  hailed  a  taxi  and  directed  the  chauf- 


194  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

feur  to  drive  him  to  24  Brutton  Square,  where  he  asked  to 
see  Miss  Lermontof. 

He  was  shown  into  the  big  and  rather  gloomy-looking 
public  drawing-room,  of  which  none  of  Mrs.  Lawrence's 
student-boarders  made  use  except  when  receiving  male 
visitors,  much  preferring  the  cheery  comfort  of  their  own 
bed-sitting-rooms — for  Diana  had  been  the  only  one  amongst 
them  whose  means  had  permitted  the  luxury  of  a  separate 
sitting-room — and  in  a  few  minutes  Olga  joined  him  there. 

There  was  a  curiously  hostile  look  in  her  face  as  she 
greeted  him. 

"This  is — an  unexpected  pleasure,  Max,"  she  began  mock- 
ingly. "To  what  am  I  indebted  ?" 

Errington  hesitated  a  moment.  Then,  his  keen  eyes  rest- 
ing piercingly  on  hers,  he  said  quietly : — 

"I  want  to  know  how  we  stand,  Olga.  Are  you  trying  to 
make  mischief  for  me  with  my  wife?" 

"Then  she's  asked  you  ?"  exclaimed  Olga  triumphantly. 

"Diana  has  asked  me  nothing.  Though  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  have  been  hinting  and  suggesting  things  to  her 
that  she  would  ask  me  about  if  it  weren't  for  her  splendid 
loyalty.  You  have  the  tongue  of  an  asp,  Olga!  Always, 
after  your  visits,  I  can  see  that  Diana  is  worried  and  un- 
happy." 

"How  can  she  ever  be  happy — as  your  wife  ?" 

Errington  winced. 

"I  could  make  her  happy — if  you — you  and  Baroni — 
would  let  me.  I  know  I  must  regard  you  as  an  enemy  in — 
that  other  matter  ...  as  a  'passive  resister,'  at  least,"  he 
amended,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "But  am  I  to  regard  you  as 
an  enemy  to  my  marriage,  too  ?  Or,  is  it  your  idea  of  pun- 
ishment, perhaps — to  wreck  my  happiness  ?" 

Olga  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and,  walking  to  the  window, 
stood  there  silently,  staring  out  into  the  street.  When  she 
turned  back  again,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Max,"  she  said  earnestly,  "you  may  not  believe  it,  but 


THE  APPROACHING  SHADOW  195 

I  want  your  happiness  above  everything  else  in  the  world. 
There  is  no  one  I  love  as  I  love  you.  Give  up — that  other 
affair.  Wash  your  hands  of  it.  Let  Adrienne  go,  and  take 
your  happiness  with  Diana.  That's  what  I'm  working  for — 
to  make  you  choose  between  Diana  and  that  interloper.  You 
won't  give  her  up  for  me;  but  perhaps,  if  Diana — if  your 
wife — insists,  you  will  shake  yourself  free,  break  with  Adri- 
enne de  Gervais  at  last.  Sometimes  I'm  almost  tempted 
to  tell  Diana  the  truth,  to  force  your  hand !" 

Errington's  eyes  blazed. 

"If  you  did  that,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  would  never  see, 
or  speak  to  you,  again." 

Olga  shivered  a  little. 

"Your  honour  is  mine,"  he  went  on.     "Remember  that." 

"It  isn't  fair,"  she  burst  out  passionately.  "It  isn't  fair 
to  put  it  like  that.  Why  should  I,  and  you,  and  Diana — 
all  of  us — be  sacrificed  for  Adrienne?" 

"Because  you  and  I  are — what  we  are,  and  because 
Diana  is  my  wife." 

Olga  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"Then — if  it  came  to  a  choice — you  would  actually  sac- 
rifice Diana  ?" 

Errington's  face  whitened. 

"It  will  not — it  shall  not !"  he  said  vehemently.  "Diana's 
faith  will  pull  us  through." 

Olga  smiled  contemptuously. 

"Don't  be  too  sure.  After  all,  a  woman's  trust  won't 
stand  everything,  and  you're  asking  a  great  deal  from 
Diana — a  blind  faith,  under  circumstances  which  might 
shake  the  confidence  of  any  one.  Already" — she  leaned  for- 
ward a  little — "already  she  is  beginning  to  be  jealous  of 
Adrienne." 

"And  whom  have  I  to  thank  for  that?  You — you,  from 
whom,  more  than  from  any  other,  I  might  have  expected 
loyalty." 

Olga  shook  her  head. 


196  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"No,  not  me.  But  the  fact  that  no  wife  worth  the  name 
will  stand  quietly  by  and  see  her  husband  at  the  beck  and 
call  of  another  woman." 

"More  especially  when  there  is  some  one  who  drops 
poison  in  her  ear  day  by  day,"  he  retorted. 

"Yes,"  she  acknowledged  frankly.  "If  I  can  bring  mat- 
ters to  a  head,  force  you  to  a  choice  between  Adrienne  and 
Diana,  I  shall  do  it.  And  then,  before  God,  Max !  I  believe 
you'll  free  yourself  from  that  woman." 

"No,"  he  answered  quietly,  "I  shall  not." 

"You'll  sacrifice  Diana?" — incredulously. 

A  smile  of  confidence  lightened  his  face. 

"I  don't  think  it  will  come  to  that.  I'm  staking — every- 
thing— on  Diana's  trust  in  me." 

"Then  you'll  lose— lose,  I  ,tell  you." 

"No,"  he  said  steadily.    "I 'shall  win." 

Olga  smote  her  hands  together. 

"Was  there  ever  such  a  fool!  I  tell  you,  no  woman's 
trust  can  hold  out  for  ever.  And  since  you  can't  explain 
to  her " 

"It  won't  be  for  ever,"  he  broke  in  quickly.  "Everything 
goes  well.  Before  long  all  the  concealment  will  be  at  an 
end.  And  I  shall  be  free." 

Olga  turned  away. 

"I  can't  wish  you  success,"  she  said  bitterly.  "The  day 
that  brings  you  success  will  be  the  blackest  hour  of  my  life." 

Errington's  face  softened  a  little. 

"Olga,  you  are  unreasonable " 

"Unreasonable,  am  I  ?  Because  I  grudge  paying  for  the 
sins  of  others?  ...  If  that  is  unreasonable — yes,  then,  I 
am  unreasonable!  Now,  go.  Go,  and  remember,  Max,  we 
are  on  opposite  sides  of  the  camp." 

Errington  paused  at  the  door. 

"So  long  as  you  keep  your  honour — our  honour — clean," 
he  said,  "do  what  you  like !  I  have  utter,  absolute  tiiist  in 
Diana." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  "FIBST  NIGHT"  PERFORMANCE 

THE  curtain  fell  amidst  a  roar  of  applause,  and  the  lights 
flashed  up  over  the  auditorium  once  more.  It  was  the 
first  night  performance  of  "Mrs.  Fleming's  Husband,"  and 
the  house  was  packed  with  the  usual  crowd  of  first-nighters, 
critics,  and  members  of  "the"  profession  who  were  anxious 
to  see  Miss  de  Gervais  in  the  new  part  Max  Errington  had 
created  for  her. 

Diana  and  Joan  Stair  were  in  a  box,  escorted  only  by 
Jerry,  since  Max  had  firmly  refused  to  come  down  to  the 
theatre  for  the  first  performance. 

"I  can't  stand  first  nights,"  he  had  said.  "At  least,  not 
of  my  own  plays."  And  not  even  Diana's  persuasions  had 
availed  to  move  him  from  this  decision. 

Joan  was  ecstatic  in  her  praise. 

"Isn't  Adrienne  simply  wonderful?"  she  exclaimed,  as 
the  music  of  the  entr'acte  stole  out  from  the  hidden  or- 
chestra. 

"  'M,  yes."    Diana's  reply  lacked  enthusiasm. 

Joan,  if  she  could  not  boast  great  powers  of  intuition, 
was  dowered  with  a  keen  observation,  and  she  had  not  spent 
a  week  at  Lilac  Lodge  without  putting  two  and  two  together 
and  making  four  of  them.  She  had  noticed  a  great 
change  in  Diaua.  The  girl  was  moody  and  unusually  silent; 
her  gay  good  spirits  had  entirely  vanished,  and  more  than 
once  Joan  had  caught  her  regarding  her  husband  with  a 
curious  mixture  of  resentment  and  contempt  in  her  eyes. 
Joan  was  frankly  worried  over  the  state  of  affairs. 

197 


198  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Why  this  nil  admirari  attitude  ?"  she  asked.  "Have  you 
and  Adrienne  quarrelled?" 

"Quarrelled  ?"  Diana  raised  her  brows  ever  so  slightly. 
"What  should  we  quarrel  about?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
really  don't  see  very  much  of  her  nowadays." 

"So  I  imagined,"  replied  Joan  calmly.  "When  I  stayed 
with  you  last  May,  either  she  came  to  the  Lodge,  or  you 
went  to  Somervell  Street,  every  day  of  the  week.  This 
time,  you've  not  seen  each  other  since  I  came." 

"No?  I  don't  think" — lightly — "that  Adrienne  cares 
much  for  members  of  her  own  sex.  She  prefers — their 
husbands." 

Joan  stared  in  amazement.  The  little  acid  speech  was  so 
unlike  Diana  that  she  felt  convinced  it  sprang  from  some 
new  and  strong  antagonism  towards  the  actress.  What 
could  be  the  cause  of  it?  Diana  and  Adrienne  had  been 
warm  friends  only  a  few  months  ago ! 

Joan's  eyes  travelled  from  Diana's  small,  set  face  to 
Jerry's  pleasant  boyish  one.  The  latter  had  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak,  then  thought  better  of  it,  and  closed  it 
again,  reddening  uncomfortably,  and  his  dismayed  ex- 
pression was  so  obvious  as  to  be  almost  comic. 

The  rise  of  the  curtain  for  the  third  and  last  act  put  a 
summary  end  to  any  further  conversation,  and  Joan  bent 
her  attention  on  the  stage  once  more,  though  all  the  time 
that  her  eyes  and  ears  were  absorbing  the  shifting  scenes 
and  brilliant  dialogue  of  the  play  a  little,  persistent,  inner 
voice  at  the  back  of  her  brain  kept  repeating  Diana's  non- 
chalant "I  really  don't  see  very  much  of  her  nowadays," 
and  querying  irrepressibly,  "Why  not?" 

Meanwhile,  Diana,  unconscious  of  the  uneasy  curiosity 
she  had  awakened  in  the  mind  of  Joan,  was  watching  the 
progress  of  the  play  intently.  How  designedly  it  was  writ- 
ten around  Adrienne  de  Gervais — calculated  to  give  every 
possible  opportunity  to  a  fine  emotional  actress!  Her  lips 
closed  a  little  more  tightly  together  as  the  thought  took  hold 


THE  "FIRST  NIGHT"  PERFORMANCE      199 

of  her.  The  author  must  have  studied  Adrienne,  watched 
her  every  mood,  learned  every  twist  of  her  temperament, 
to  have  portrayed  a  character  so  absolutely  suited  to  her  as 
that  of  Mrs.  Fleming.  And  how  could  a  man  know  a 
woman's  soul  so  well  unless — unless  it  were  the  soul  of  the 
woman  .he  loved  ?  That  was  it ;  that  was  the  explanation  of 
all  those  things  which  had  puzzled  and  bewildered  her  for 
so  long.  And  the  author  was  her  husband ! 

Diana,  staring  down  from  her  box  at  that  exquisite, 
breathing  incarnation  of  grace  on  the  stage  below,  felt  that 
she  hated  Adrienne.  She  had  never  hated  any  one  before, 
and  the  intensity  of  her  feeling  frightened  her.  Since  a  few 
months  ago,  strange,  deep  emotions  had  stirred  within  her 
— a  passion  of  love  and  a  passion  of  hatred  such  as  in  the 
days  of  her  simple  girlhood  she  would  not  have  believed  to 
be  possible  to  any  ordinary  well-brought-up  young  English- 
woman. That  Max  was  capable  of  a  fierce  heat  of  passion, 
she  knew.  But  then,  he  was  not  all  English;  wilder  blood 
ran  in  his  veins.  She  could  imagine  his  killing  a  man  if 
driven  by  the  lash  of  passionate  jealousy.  But  she  had 
never  pictured  herself  obsessed  by  hate  of  a  like  quality. 

And  yet,  now,  as  her  eyes  followed  Adrienne's  slender 
figure,  with  its  curious  little  air  of  hauteur  that  always 
set  her  so  apart  from  other  women,  moving  hither  and 
thither*  on  the  stage,  her  hands  clenched  themselves  fiercely, 
and  her  grey  eyes  dilated  with  the  intensity  of  her  hatred. 
Almost — almost  she  could  understand  how  men  and  women 
killed  each  other  in  the  grip  of  a  jealous  love.  .  .  . 

The  play  was  ended.  Adrienne,  had  bowed  repeatedly  in 
response  to  the  wild  enthusiasm  of  the  audience,  and  of  a 
sudden  a  new  cry  mingled  with  the  shouts  and  clapping. 

"Author!    Author!" 

Adrienne  came  forward  again  and  bowed,  smilingly  shak- 
ing her  head,  gesturing  a  negative  with  her  hands.  But 
still  the  cry  went  on,  "Author !  Author !" — the  steady,  per- 


200  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

sistent  drone  of  an  audience  which  does  not  mean  to  be 
denied. 

Diana  experienced  a  brief  thrill  of  triumph.  She  felt 
convinced  that  Adrienne  would  have  liked  to  have  Max 
standing  beside  her  at  this  moment.  It  would  have  set  the 
seal  on  an  evening  of  glorious  success,  completed  it,  as  it 
were.  And  he  had  refused  to  come,  declined — so  Diana 
put  it  to  herself — to  share  the  evening's  triumph  with  the 
actress  who  had  so  well  interpreted  his  work.  At  least  this 
would  be  a  pin-prick  in  the  enemy's  side ! 

And  then — then — a  hand  pulled  aside  the  heavy  folds  of 
the  stage  curtain,  and  the  next  moment  Max  and  Adrienne 
were  standing  there  together,  bowing  and  smiling,  while  the 
audience  roared  and  cheered  its  enthusiasm. 

Diana  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes.  Max  had  told  her 
so  emphatically  that  he  would  not  come.  And  now,  he  was 
here!  He  had  lied  to  her!  The  affair  had  been  pre-ar- 
ranged between  him  and  Adrienne  all  the  time!  Only  she 
— the  wife! — had  been  kept  in  the  dark.  Probably  he  had 
spent  the  entire  evening  behind  the  scenes.  ...  In  her 
overwrought  condition,  no  supposition  was  too  wild  for 
credence. 

Vaguely  she  heard  some  one  at  the  back  of  the  house  shout 
"Speech !"  and  the  cry  was  taken  up  by  a  dozen  voices,  but 
Max  only  laughed  and  shook  his  head,  and  once  more  the 
heavy  curtains  fell  together,  shutting  him  and  Adrienne 
from  her  sight. 

Mechanically  Diana  gathered  up  her  wraps  and  prepared 
to  leave  the  box. 

"Aren't  you  coming  round  behind  to  congratulate  them, 
Mrs.  Errington?" 

Jerry's  astonished  tones  broke  on  her  ears  as  she  turned 
down  the  corridor  in  the  direction  of  the  vestibule. 

"No"  she  replied  quietly.     "I'm  going  home." 


THE  "FIKST  NIGHT"  PERFORMANCE      201 

"You  told  me  you  wouldn't  come  to  the  theatre — and  you 
intended  going  all  the  time!" 

Diana's  wraps  were  flung  on  the  chair  beside  her,  and 
she  stood,  a  slim,  pliant  figure  in  her  white  evening  gown, 
defiantly  facing  her  husband. 

"No,  I'd  no  intention  of  going.  I  detest  first  nights," 
lie  answered. 

"Then  why  were  you  there?  Oh,  I  don't  believe  it — I 
don't  believe  it!  You  simply  wanted  to  spend  the  evening 
with  Adrienne;  that  was  why  you  refused  to  go  with  me." 

"Diana!"  Max  spoke  incredulously.  "You  can't  believe 
— you  can't  think  that!" 

"But  I  do  think  that!" — imperiously.  "What  else  can 
I  think  ?"  Her  long-pent  jealousy  had  broken  forth  at  last, 
and  the  words  raced  from  her  lips.  "You  refused  to  come 
when  I  asked  you — offered  me  Jerry  as  an  escort  instead. 
Jerry!" — scornfully — "I'm  to  be  content  with  my  husband's 
secretary,  I  suppose,  so  that  my  husband  himself  can  dance 
attendance  on  Adrienne  de  Gervais?" 

Max  stood  motionless,  his  eyes  like  steel. 

"You  are  being — rather  childish,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
slow  deliberation.  His  cool,  contemptuous  tones  cut  like  a 
whip. 

She  had  been  rapidly  losing  her  self-command,  and,  read- 
ing the  intense  anger  beneath  his  outward  calm,  she  made 
an  effort  to  pull  herself  together. 

"Childish  ?"  she  retorted.  "Yes,  I  suppose  it  is  childish 
to  mind  being  deceived.  I  ought  to  have  been  prepared  for 
it — expected  it." 

At  the  note  of  suffering  in  her  voice  the  anger  died  swiftly 
out  of  his  eyes. 

"You  don't  mean  that,  Diana,"  he  said,  more  gently. 

"Yes,  I  do.  You  warned  me — didn't  you? — that  there 
would  be  things  you  couldn't  explain.  I  suppose" — bitterly 
— "this  is  one  of  them!" 

"No,  it  is  not.     I  can  explain  this.     I  didn't  intend  com- 


202  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

ing  to-night,  as  I  told  you.  But  Miss  de  Gervais  rang  up 
from  the  theatre  and  begged  me  to  come,  so,  of  course,  as 
she  wished  it " 

"  'As  she  wished  it !'  Are  her  wishes,  then,  of  so  much 
more  importance  than  mine  ?" 

Errington  was  silent  for  a  moment.  At  last  he  replied 
quietly : — 

"You  know  they  are  not.  But  in  this  case,  in  the  matter 
of  the  play,  she  is  entitled  to  every  consideration." 

Diana's  eyes  searched  his  face.  Beneath  the  soft  laces 
of  her  gown  her  breast  still  rose  and  fell  stormily,  but  she 
had  herself  in  hand  now. 

"Max,  when  I  married  you  I  took  .  .  .  something  .  .  . 
on  trust."  She  spoke  slowly,  weighing  her  words,  "But  I 
didn't  expect  that  something  to  include — Adrienne!  What 
has  she  to  do  with  you  ?" 

Errington's  brows  came  sharply  together.  He  drew  a 
quick,  short  breath  as  though  bracing  himself  to  meet  some 
unforeseen  danger. 

"I've  written  a  play  for  her,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  is  that  all  that  there  is  between  you 
—this  play  ?" 

"I  can't  answer  that  question,"  he  replied  quietly. 

Diana  flung  out  her  hand  with  a  sudden,  passionate  ges- 
ture. 

"You've  answered  it,  I  think,"  she  said  scornfully. 

He  took  a  quick  stride  towards  her,  catching  her  by  the 
arms. 

"Diana" — his  voice  vibrated — "won't  you  trust  me?" 

"Trust  you!  How  can  I?"  she*  broke  out  wildly.  "If 

trusting  you  means  standing  by  whilst  Adrienne Oh,  I 

can't  bear  it.  You're  asking  too  much  of  me,  Max.  I  didn't 
know  .  .  .  when  you  asked  me  to  trust  you  .  .  .  that  it 
meant — this!  .  .  .  And  there's  something  else,  too.  Who 
are  you  ?  What  is  your  real  name  ?  I  don't  even  know" — 
bitterly — "whom  I've  married !" 


THE  "FIRST  NIGHT"  PERFORMANCE      203 

He  released  her  suddenly,  almost  as  though  she  had  struck 
him. 

"Who  has  been  talking  to  you  ?"  he  demanded  thickly. 

"Then  it's  true?" 

Diana's  hands  fell  to  her  sides  and  every  drop  of  colour 
drained  away  from  her  face.  The  question  had  been  lying 
dormant  in  her  mind  ever  since  the  day  when  Olga  Ler- 
montof  had  first  implanted  it  there.  Now  it  had  sprung 
from  her  lips,  dragged  forth  by  the  emotion  of  the  moment. 
And  he  couldn't  answer  it! 

"Then  it's  true  ?"  she  repeated. 

Errington's  face  set  like  a  mask. 

"That  is  a  question  you  shouldn't  have  asked,"  he  replied 
coldly. 

"And  one  you  cannot  answer  ?" 

He  bent  his  head. 

"And  one  I  cannot  answer." 

Very  slowly  she  picked  up  her  wraps. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  unsteadily.     "I'll— I'll  go  now." 

He  laid  his  hand  deliberately  on  the  door-handle. 

"No,"  he  said.  "No,  you  won't  go.  I've  heard  what  you 
have  to  say;  now  you'll  listen  to  ma  Good  God,  Diana!" 
he  continued  passionately.  "Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
stand  quietly  by  and  see  our  happiness  wrecked?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  prevent  it,"  she  said  dully. 

"I?  No;  I  can  do  nothing.  But  you  can.  Diana,  be- 
loved, have  faith  in  me!  I  can't  explain  these  things  to 
you — not  now.  Some  day,  please  God,  I  shall  be  able  to, 
but  till  that  day  comes — trust  me!"  There  was  a  depth 
of  supplication  and  entreaty  in  his  tone,  but  it  left  her  un- 
moved. She  felt  frozen — passionless. 

"Do  you  mean — do  you  mean  that  Adrienne,  your  name, 
everything,  is  all  part  of — of  what  you  can't  tell  me  ?  Part 
of — the  shadow  ?" 

He  was  silent  a  moment.     Then  he  answered  steadily : — 

"Yes.    That  much  I  may  tell  you." 


204  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

She  put  np  her  hand  and  pushed  back  her  hair  impa- 
tiently from  her  forehead. 

"I  can't  understand  it  ...  I  can't  understand  it,"  she 
muttered. 

"Dear,  must  one  understand — to  love?  .  .  .  Can't  you 
have  faith?" 

His  eyes,  those  blue  eyes  of  his  which  could  be  by  turns 
so  fierce,  so  unrelenting,  and — did  she  not  know  it  to  her 
heart's  undoing  ? — so  unutterably  tender,  besought  her.  But, 
for  once,  they  awakened  no  response.  She  felt  cold— quite 
cold  and  indifferent. 

"No,  Max,"  she  answered  wearily.  "I  don't  think  I  can. 
You  ask  me  to  believe  that  there  is  need  for  you  to  see  so 
much  of  Adrienne.  At  first  you  said  it  was  because  of  the 
play.  Now  you  say  it  has  to  do  with  this — this  thing  I  may 
not  know.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  I  can't  believe  it.  I  think  a 
man's  wife  should  come  first— rfirst  of  anything.  I've  tried 
— oh,  I've  tried  not  to  mind  when  you  left  me  so  often  to 
go  to  Adrienne.  I  used  to  tell  myself  that  it  was  only  on 
account  of  the  play.  I  tried  to  believe  it,  because — because 
I  loved  you  so.  But" — with  a  bitter  little  smile — "I  don't 
think  I  ever  realty  believed  it — I  only  cheated  myself.  .  .  . 
There's  something  else,  too — the  shadow.  Baroni  knows 
what  it  is — and  Olga  Lermontof.  Only  I — your  wife- — I 
know  nothing." 

She  paused,  as  though  expecting  some  reply,  but  Max 
remained  silent,  his  arms  folded  across  his  chest,  his  head 
a  little  bent. 

"I  was  only  a  child  when  you  married  me,  Max,"  she 
went  on  presently.  "I  didn't  realise  what  it  meant  for  a 
husband  to  have  some  secret  business  which  he  cannot  tell 
his  wife.  But  I  know  now  what  it  means.  It's  merely  an 
excuse  to  be  always  with  another  woman " 

In  a  stride  Max  waa  beside  her,  his  eyes  blazing,  his 
hands  gripping  her  shoulders  with  a  clasp  that  hurt  her. 


THE  "FIRST  NIGHT"  PERFORMANCE      205 

"How  dare  you?"  he  exclaimed.  "Unsay  that — take  it 
back  ?  Do  you  hear  ?" 

She  shrank  a  little,  twisting  in  his  grasp,  but  he  held 
her  remorselessly. 

"No,  I  won't  take  it  back.  .  .  .  Ah!  Let  me  go,  Max, 
you're  hurting  me !" 

He  released  her  instantly,  and,  as  his  hands  fell  away 
from  her  shoulders,  the  white  flesh  reddened  into  bars  where 
his  fingers  had  gripped  her.  His  eyes  rested  for  a  moment 
on  the  angry-looking  marks,  and  then,  with  an  inarticulate 
cry,  he  caught  her  to  him,  pressing  his  lips  against  the 
bruised  flesh,  against  her  eyes,  her  mouth,  crushing  her  in 
his  arms. 

She  lay  there  passively;  but  her  body  stiffened  a  little, 
and  her  lips  remained  quite  still  and  unresponsive  beneath 
his. 

"Diana!  .  .  .  Beloved!  .  .  ." 

She  thrust  her  hands  against  his  chest. 

"Let  me  go,"  she  whispered  breathlessly.  "Let  me  go.  I 
can't  bear  you  to  touch  me." 

With  a  quick,  determined  movement  she  freed  herself, 
and  stood  a  little  away  from  him,  panting. 

"Don't  ever  ...  do  that  .  .  .  again.  I — I  can't  bear 
you  to  touch  me  .  .  .  not  now." 

She  made  a  wavering  step  towards  the  door.  He  held  it 
open  for  her,  and  in  silence  she  passed  out  and  up  the  stairs. 
Presently,  from  the  landing  above,  he  heard  the  lock  of  her 
bedroom  door  click  into  its  socket.  .  .  . 


CHAPTEK  XX 

THE   SHADOW   FALLS 

BREAKFAST,  the  following  morning,  was  something  of 
an  ordeal.  Neither  Max  nor  Diana  spoke  to  each  other 
if  speech  could  be  avoided,  and,  when  this  was  impossible, 
they 'addressed  each  other  with  a  frigid  politeness  that  was 
more  painful  than  the  silence. 

Jerry  and  Joan,  sensing  the  antagonism  in  the  atmos- 
phere, endeavoured  to  make  conversation,  but  their  efforts 
received  scant  encouragement,  and  both  were  thankful  when 
the  meal  came  to  an  end,  and  they  were  free  to  seek  refuge 
in  another  room,  leaving  husband  and  wife  alone  together. 

Diana  glanced  a  trifle  nervously  at  her  husband  as  the 
door  closed  behind  them.  There  was  a  coldness,  an  aloofness 
about  him,  that  reminded  her  vividly  of  the  early  days  of 
their  acquaintanceship,  when  his  cool  indifference  of  man- 
ner had  set  a  barrier  between  them  which  her  impulsive 
girlhood  had  been  powerless  to  break  through. 

"Will  you  spare  me  a  few  minutes  in  my  study?"  he 
said.  His  face  was  perfectly  impassive;  only  the  peculiar 
brilliancy  of  his  eyes  spoke  of  the  white-hot  anger  he  was 
holding  in  leash. 

Diana  nodded  silently.  For  a  moment,  bereft  of  words, 
she  quailed  Before  the  knowledge  of  that  concentrated  anger, 
but  by  the  time  they  had  reached  his  study  she  had  pulled 
herself  together,  and  was  ready  to  face  him  with  a  high 
temper  almost  equal  to  his  own. 

She  had  had  the  night  for  reflection,  and  the  sense  of 
bitter  injustice  under  which  she  was  labouring  had  roused 

206 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS  207 

in  her  the  same*  dogged,  unbending  obstinacy  which,  in  a 
much  smaller  way,  had  evinced  itself  when  Baroni  had 
thrown  the  music  at  her  and  had  subsequently  bade  her  pick 
it  up. 

But  now  that  sense  of  wild  rebellion  against  injustice, 
against  personal  injury,  was  magnified  a  thousandfold.  For 
months  she  had  been  drifting  steadily  apart  from  her  hus- 
band, acutely  conscious  of  that  secret  thing  in  his  life,  and 
fiercely  resentful  of  its  imperceptible,  yet  binding  influence 
on  all  his  actions.  Again  and  again  she  had  been  perplexed 
and  mystified  by  certain  incomprehensible  things  which  she 
had  observed — for  instance,  the  fact  that,  as  she  knew,  part 
of  Max's  correspondence  was  conducted  in  cipher;  that  at 
times  he  seemed  quite  unaccountably  worried  and  depressed ; 
and,  above  all,  that  he  was  for  ever  at  the  beck  and  call  of 
Adrienne  de  Gervais. 

Gradually  she  had  begun  to  connect  the  two  things — 
Adrienne,  and  that  secret  which  dwelt  like  a  shadowy  men- 
ace at  the  back  of  everything.  It  was  clear,  too,  that  they 
were  also  linked  together  in  the  minds  both  of  Baroni  and 
Olga  Lermontof — a  dropped  sentence  here,  a  hint  there,  had 
assured  her  of  that 

Then  had  come  Olga's  definite  suggestion,  "Adrienne  de 
Gervais  is  a  bad  friend  for  the  man  one  loves !"  And  from 
that  point  onward  Diana  had  seen  new  meanings  in  all  that 
passed  between  her  husband  and  the  actress,  and  a  blind 
jealousy  had  taken  possession  of  her.  Something  out  of  the 
past  bound  her  husband  and  Adrienne  together,  of  that  she 
felt  convinced.  She  believed  that  the  knowledge  which  Max 
had  chosen  to  withhold  from  her — his  wife — he  shared  with 
Adrienne — and  all  Diana's  fierce  young  sense  of  possession 
rose  up  in  opposition. 

Last  night,  the  sight  of  her  husband  and  the  actress,  stand- 
ing together  on  the  stage,  had  seemed  to  her  to  epitomise 
their  relative  positions — Max  and  Adrienne,  working  to- 


208  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

gether,  fully  in  each  other's  confidence,  whilst  she  herself 
was  the  outsider,  only  the  onlooker  in  the  box ! 

"Well?"  she  said,  defiantly  turning  to  her  husband. 
"Well  ?  What  is  it  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"I  want  an  explanation  of  your  conduct — last  night." 

"And  I,"  she  retorted  impetuously,  "I  want  an  explana- 
tion of  your  conduct — ever  since  we've  been  married !" 

He  swept  her  demand  aside  as  though  it  were  the  irre- 
sponsible prattle  of  a  child,  ignored  it  utterly.  He  was  con- 
scious of  only  one  thing — that  she  had  barred  herself  away 
from  him,  humiliated  him,  dealt  their  mutual  love  a  blow 
beneath  which  it  reeled. 

The  bolted  door  itself  counted  for  nothing.  What  mat- 
tered was  that  it  was  she  who  had  closed  it,  deliberately 
choosing  to  shut  him  outside  her  life,  and  cutting  every  cord 
of  love  and  trust  and  belief  that  bound  them  together. 

An  Englishman  might  have  stormed  or  laughed,  as  the 
mood  took  him,  and  comforted  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  she  would  "get  over  it."  But  not  so  Max.  The  sensi- 
tiveness which  he  hid  from  the  world  at  large,  but  which 
revealed  itself  in  the  lines  of  that  fine-cut  mouth  of  his, 
winced  under  the  humiliation  she  had  put  upon  him.  Love, 
in  his  idea,  was  a  thing  so  delicate,  so  rare,  that  Diana's 
crude  handling  of  the  situation  bore  for  him  a  far  deeper 
meaning  than  the  impulsive,  headlong  action  of  the  over- 
wrought girl  had  rightly  held.  To  Max,  it  signified  the  end 
— the  denial  of  all  the  exquisite  trust  and  understanding 
which  love  should  represent.  If  she  could  think  for  an  in- 
stant that  he  would  have  asked  aught  from  her  at  a  moment 
when  they  were  so  far  apart  in  spirit,  then  she  had  not 
understood  the  ideal  oneness  of  body  and  soul  which  love 
signified  to  him,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  had  actually 
sought  to  protect  herself  from  him  had  hurt  him  unbearably. 

"Last  night,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  showed  me  that  you 
have  no  trust,  no  faith  in  me  any  longer." 

And   Diana,    misunderstanding,   thinking   of   the  secret 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS  209 

which  he  would  not  share  with  her,  and  impelled  by  the 
jealousy  that  obsessed  her,  replied  impetuously: — 

"Yes,  I  meant  to  show  you  that.  You  refuse  me  your 
confidence,  and  expect  me  to  believe  in  you!  You  set  me 
aside  for  Adrienne  de  Gervais,  and  then  you  ask  me  to — 
trust  you  ?  How  can  I  ?  .  .  .  I'm  not  a  fool,  Max." 

"So  it's  that?  The  one  thing  over  which  I  asked  your 
faith  ?"  The  limitless  scorn  in  his  voice  lashed  her. 

"You  had  no  right  to  ask  it!"  she  broke  out  bitterly.  "Oh, 
you  knew  what  it  would  mean.  I,  I  was  too  young  to  realise. 
I  didn't  think — I  didn't  understand  what  a  horrible  thing 
a  secret  between  husband  and  wife  might  be.  But  I  can't 
bear  it — I  can't  bear  it  any  longer!  I  sometimes  wonder," 
she  added  slowly,  "if  you  ever  loved  me  ?" 

"If  I  ever  loved  you?"  he  repeated.  "There  has  never 
been  any  other  woman  in  the  world  for  me.  There  never 
will  be." 

The  utter,  absolute  conviction  of  his  tones  knocked  at  her 
heart,  but  fear  and  jealousy  were  stronger  than  love. 

"Then  prove  it !"  she  retorted.  "Take  me  into  your  con- 
fidence; put  Adrienne  out  of  your  life." 

"It  isn't  possible — not  yet,"  he  said  wearily.  "You're 
asking  what  I  cannot  do." 

She  took  a  step  nearer. 

"Tell  me  this,  then.  What  did  Olga  Lermontof  mean 
when  she  bade  me  ask  your  name?  Oh!" — with  a  quick 
intake  of  her  breath — "you  must  answer  that,  Max ;  you  must 
tell  me  that.  I  have  a  right  to  know  it !" 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  while  she  waited,  eager-eyed, 
tremulously  appealing,  for  his  answer.  At  last  it  came. 

"No,"  he  said  inflexibly.  "You  have  no — right— to  ask 
anything  I  haven't  chosen  to  tell  you.  When  you  gave  me 
your  love,  you  gave  me  your  faith,  too.  I  warned  you  what 
it  might  mean — but  you  gave  it.  And  I" — his  voice  deepened 
— "I  worshipped  you  for  it!  ...  But  I  see  now,  I  asked 


210  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

too  much  of  you.  More" — cynically — "than  any  woman  has 
to  give." 

"Then — then" — her  voice  trembled — "you  mean  you 
won't  tell  me  anything  more  ?" 

"I  can't" 

"And — and  Adrienne?  Everything  must  go  on  just  the 
same?" 

"Just  the  same" — implacably. 

She  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"And  you  expect  me  still  to  feel  the  same  towards  you,  I 
suppose?  To  behave  as  though  nothing  had  come  between 
us?" 

For  a  moment  his  control  gave  way. 

"I  expect  nothing,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "I  shall  never  ask 
you  for  anything  again — neither  love  nor  friendship.  As 
you  have  decreed,  so  it  shall  be!" 

Slowly,  with  bent  head,  Diana  turned  and  left  the  room. 

So  this  was  the  end!  She  had  made  her  appeal,  risked 
everything  on  his  love  for  her — and  lost.  Adrienne  de 
Gervais  was  stronger  than  she! 

Hereafter,  she  supposed,  they  would  live  as  so  many  other 
husbands  and  wives  lived — outwardly  good  friends,  but  actu- 
ally with  all  the  beautiful  links  of  love  and  understanding 
shattered  and  broken. 

"Since  the  first  night  of  the  play  they've  hardly  said  a 
word  to  each  other — only  when  it's  absolutely  necessary." 
Joan  spoke  dejectedly,  her  chin  cupped  in  her  hand. 

Jerry  nodded. 

"I  know,"  he  agreed.    "It's  pretty  awful." 

He  and  Joan  were  having  tea  alone  together,  cosily,  by 
the  library  fire.  Diana  had  gone  out  to  a  singing-lesson, 
and  Errington  was  shut  up  in  his  study  attending  to  certain 
letters,  written  in  cipher — letters  which  reaohed  him  fre- 
quently, bearing  a  foreign  postmark,  and  the  answers  to 
which  he  never  by  any  chance  dictated  to  his  secretary. 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS  211 

"Surely  they  can't  have  quarrelled,  just  because  he  didn't 
come  to  the  theatre  with  us  that  night,"  pursued  Joan.  "Do 
you  think  Diana  could  have  been  offended  because  he  came 
down  afterwards  to  please  Miss  Gervais?" 

"Partly  that.  But  it's  a  lot  of  things  together,  really. 
I've  seen  it  coming.  Diana's  been  getting  restive  for  some 
time.  There  are — Look  here!  I  don't  wish  to  pry  into 
what's  not  my  business,  but  a  fellow  can't  live  in  a  house 
without  seeing  things,  and  there's  something  in  Errington's 
life  which  Di  knows  nothing  about.  And  it's  that — just  the 
not  knowing — which  is  coming  between  them." 

"Well,  then,  why  on  earth  doesn't  he  tell  her  about  it, 
whatever  it  is?" 

Jerry  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Can't  say.  I  don't  know  what  it  is ;  it's  not  my  business  to 
know.  But  his  wife's  another  proposition  altogether." 

"I  suppose  he  expects  her  to  trust  him  over  it,"  said  Joan 
thoughtfully. 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it.    And  Diana  isn't  taking  any." 

"I  should  trust  him  with  anything  in  the  world — a  man 
with  that  face !"  observed  Joan,  after  a  pause. 

"There  you  go!"  cried  Jerry  discontentedly.  "There 
you  go,  with  your  unfailing  faith  in  the  visible  object.  A 
man's  got  to  look  a  hero  before  you  think  twice  about  him  I 
Mark  my  words,  Jo — many  a  saint's  face  has  hidden  the 
heart  of  a  devil." 

Joan  surveyed  him  consideringly. 

"I've  never  observed  that  you  have  a  saint's  face,  Jerry," 
she  remarked  calmly. 

"Beast !  Joan" — he  made  a  dive  for  her  hand,  but  she 
eluded  him  with  the  skill  of  frequent  practice — "how  much 
longer  are  you  going  to  keep  me  on  tenterhooks  ?  You  know 
I'm  the  prodigal  son,  and  that  I'm  only  waiting  for  you  to 
say  'yes,'  to  return  to  the  family  bosom " 

"And  you  propose  to  use  me  as  a  stepping  stone !  I  know. 
You  think  that  if  you  return  as  an  engaged  young  man ; 


212  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"With  a  good  reference  from  my  last  situation,"  inter- 
polated Jerry,  grinning. 

"Yes — that  too,  then  your  father  will  forget  all  your 
peccadilloes  and  say,  'Bless  you,  my  children'— 

"Limelight  on  the  hlushing  bur-ride!  And  they  lived 
happily  ever  after !  Yes,  that's  it !  Jolly  good  programme, 
isn't  it?" 

And  somehow  Jerry's  big  boyish  arm  slipped  itself  round 
Joan's  shoulders — and  Joan  raised  no  objections. 

"But — about  Max  and  Diana  ?"  resumed  Miss  Stair  after 
a  judicious  interval. 

"Well,  what  about  them?" 

"Can't  we — can't  we  do  anything  ?    Talk  to  them ?" 

"I  just  see  myself  talking  to  Errington!"  murmured 
Jerry.  "I'd  about  as  soon  discuss  its  private  and  internal 
arrangements  with  a  volcano!  My  dear  kid,  it  all  depends 
upon  Diana  and  whether  she's  content  to  trust  her  husband 
or  not.  I'd  trust  Max  through  thick  and  thin,  and  no  ques- 
tions asked.  If  he  blew  up  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  I 
should  believe  he'd  some  good  reason  for  doing  it.  ... 
But  then,  I'm  not  his  wife!" 

"Well,  I  shall  talk  to  Diana,"  said  Joan  seriously.  "I'm 
sure  Dad  would,  if  he  were  here.  And  I  do  think,  Jerry, 
you  might  screw  up  courage  to  speak  to  Max.  He  can't  eat 
you!  And — and  I  simply  hate  to  see  those  two  at  croee 
purposes !  They  were  so  happy  at  the  beginning." 

The  mention  of  matrimonial  happiness  started  a  new  train 
of  thought,  and  the  conversation  became  of  a  more  personal 
nature — the  kind  of  conversation  wherein  every  second  or 
third  sentence  starts  with  "when  we  are  married,"  and 
thence  launches  out  into  rose-red  visions  of  the  great  ad- 
venture. 

Presently  the  house  door  clanged,  and  a  minute  later 
Diana  came  into  the  room.  She  threw  aside  her  furs  and 
looked  round  hastily. 

"Where's  Max?"  she  asked  sharply. 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS  213 

"Not  concealed  beneath  the  Chesterfield,"  volunteered 
Jerry  flippantly.  Then,  as  he  caught  a  hostile  sparkle  of 
irritation  in  her  grey  eyes,  he  added  hastily,  "He's  in  his 
study." 

Diana  nodded,  and,  without  further  remark,  went  away  in 
search  of  her  husband. 

"Are  you  busy,  Max  ?"  she  asked,  pausing  on  the  threshold 
of  the  room  where  he  was  working. 

He  rose  at  once,  placing  a  chair  for  her  with  the  chilly 
courtesy  which  he  had  accorded  her  since  their  last  interview 
in  this  same  room. 

"Not  too  busy  to  attend  to  you,"  he  replied.  "Where  will 
you  sit  ?  By  the  fire  ?" 

Diana  shook  her  head.  She  was  a  little  flushed,  and  her 
eyes  were  bright  with  some  suppressed  excitement. 

"No  thanks,"  she  replied.  "I  only  came  to  tell  you  that 
I've  been  having  a  talk  with  Baroni  about  my  voice,  and — 
and  that  I've  decided  to  begin  singing  again  this  winter — 
professionally,  I  mean.  It  seems  a  pity  to  waste  any  more 
time." 

She  spoke  rapidly,  and  with  a  certain  nervousness. 

For  an  instant  a  look  of  acute  pain  leaped  into  Erring- 
ton's  eyes,  but  it  was  gone  almost  at  once,  and  he  turned  to 
her  composedly. 

"Is  that  the  only  reason,  Diana?"  he  said.  "The  waste 
of  time?" 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  busying  herself  stripping  off  her 
gloves.  Presently  she  looked  up,  forcing  herself  to  meet  his 
gaze. 

"No,"  she  said  steadily.    "It  isn't." 

"May  I  know  the — other  reasons  ?" 

Her  lip  curled. 

"I  should  have  thought  they  were  obvious.  Our  marriage 
has  been  a  mistake.  It's  a  failure.  And  I  can't  bear  this 
life  any  longer.  ...  I  must  have  something  to  do." 

"Need  we  live  like  this  ?"  he  asked  suddenly.    "Strangera 


214  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

to  each  other  in  our  own  home  ?  It  was  your  decree,  remem- 
ber .  .  .  that  night  .  .  .  when  you  locked  your  door  against 
me." 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly. 

"It  has  been  locked  every  night  .  .  .  since." 

A  glint  of  slumbering  fire  showed  itself  in  his  eyes. 

"I  know."  His  voice  shook  a  little.  "Sometimes  ...  I 
wonder  I  haven't  robbed  you  of  the  key !" 

"Oh  no! — no!"  She  shrank  away  from  him,  and  the 
fear  in  her  eyes  made  him  wince. 

"Do  you  hate  me  so  much  then  ?"  He  spoke  with  intense 
wearinesa  "You  needn't  be  afraid — I  won't  ask  for  what 
you  can't  give,  Diana.  I'm  to  blame.  I  ought  never  to  have 
married  you.  And  I'll  pay  the  price  you've  fixed.  Per- 
haps— some  day — we  shall  find  happiness  again  to- 
gether  " 

"No,"  she  broke  in  quickly.  "We  shan't  do  that.  I  think 
you've  killed  my  love,  Max.  This  secret  of  yours — it's  like 
a  great  wall  between  us.  We  can't  ever  get  near  to  each  other 
because  of  it,  and  because  of — Adrienne." 

He  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"If  only  you  knew  how  little  you  need  resent  my  friend- 
ship with  Adrienne!" 

Diana  took  a  step  towards  him. 

"Then  give  her  up!"  she  said.  "Cut  her  out  of  your  life. 

If — if  you  did  that,  Max "  She  broke  off,  but  her  eyes, 

suddenly  radiant  and  misty,  told  him  all  that  a  man  need 
know. 

"If  I  did  that — you  would  come  back  to  me  ?"  The  words 
leaped  from  his  lips. 

She  bent  her  head,  still  with  that  soft  shining  in  her  eyes. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Errington's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
hers,  his  face  tense  with  some  inward  struggle.  Once  he 
made  a  groping  movement  towards  her,  but  his  arms  fell 
limply  again  to  his  side.  At  last — 

"I  can't!"  he  said  hoarsely.     "I  can't  do  what  you  ask." 


THE  SHADOW  FALLS  215 

Instantly  the  light  died  out  of  her  face. 

"Then  that  is  the  end,"  she  said  coldly.  "I  don't  think 
we  need  discuss  the  matter  again.  There  need  be  no  gossip. 
So  long  as  I  live  in  your  house  and  bear  your  name — that's 
all  the  world  demands  of  us.  I  shall  go  back  to  my  pro- 
fession, and — and  I  suppose  we  can  be  decently  civil  to 
each  other  ?  That's  all,  I  think." 

Suddenly  Errington  threw  back  his  shoulders. 

"No,"  he  said,  and  there  was  almost  a  ring  of  triumph  in 
his  voice.  "It's  not  all.  Your  love  is  no  more  dead  than 
mine !  Love  doesn't  die ;  and  you  won't  be  able  to  bear  this 
miserable  farce  of  a  life  that  you're  planning  for  us." 

She  turned  on  him  swiftly. 

"My  pride's  greater  than  my  love,  Max.  If  ever  the  time 
comes  when  I  can't  bear  it — I  shall  go  away." 

The  door  closed  behind  her,  and  for  a  moment  Max  stood 
silently  staring  into  space,  the  bitter  threat  of  her  last  words 
ringing  in  his  ears.  Then  he  dropped  into  a  chair,  his  face 
hidden  in  his  arms. 

"God !"  he  muttered.    "God !    Is  there  no  way  out  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   OTHER   WOMAN 

CARLO  BARONI'S  joy  knew  no  bounds  when  he  under- 
stood that  Diana  had  definitely  decided  to  return  to 
the  concert  platform.  His  first  action  was  to  order  her  away 
for  a  complete  change  and  rest,  so  she  and  Joan  obediently 
packed  their  trunks  and  departed  to  Switzerland,  where  they 
forgot  for  a  time  the  existence  of  such  things  as  London 
fogs,  either  real  or  figurative,  and  threw  themselves  heart 
and  soul  into  the  winter  sports  that  were  going  forward. 

The  middle  of  February  found  them  once  more  in  Eng- 
land, and  Joan  rejoined  her  father,  while  Diana  went  back 
to  Lilac  Lodge.  She  was  greatly  relieved  to  discover  that 
the  break  had  simplified  several  problems  and  made  it  much 
easier  for  her  to  meet  her  husband  and  begin  life  again  on 
fresh  terms.  Max,  indeed,  seemed  to  have  accepted  the  new 
regime  with  that  same  mocking  philosophy  with  which  he  in- 
variably faced  the  problems  of  life — and  which  so  success- 
fully cloaked  his  hurt  from  prying  eyes. 

He  was  uniformly  kind  in  his  manner  to  his  wife — with 
that  light,  half-cynical  kindness  which  he  had  accorded  her 
in  the  train  on  their  first  memorable  journey  together,  and 
which  effectually  set  them  as  far  apart  from  each  other  as 
though  they  stood  at  the  opposite  ends  of  the  earth. 

Unreasonably  enough,  Diana  bitterly  resented  this  atti- 
tude. Womanlike,  she  made  more  than  one  attempt  to  re- 
open the  matter  over  which  they  had  quarrelled,  but  each  was 
skilfully  turned  aside,  and  the  fact  that  after  his  one  re- 
jected effort  at  reconciliation,  Max  had  calmly  accepted  the 
new  order  of  things,  added  fuel  to  the  jealous  fire  that 

216 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  217 

burned  within  her.  She  told  herself  that  if  he  still  cared  for 
her,  if  he  were  not  utterly  absorbed  in  Adrienne  de  Gervais, 
he  would  never  have  rested  until  he  had  restored  the  old, 
happy  relations  between  them. 

Instinctively  she  sought  to  dull  the  pain  at  her  heart  by 
plunging  headlong  into  professional  life.  Her  voice,  thanks 
to  the  rest  and  change  of  her  visit  to  Switzerland,  had  re- 
gained all  its  former  beauty,  and  her  return  to  the  concert 
platform  was  received  with  an  outburst  of  popular  en- 
thusiasm. The  newspapers  devoted  half  a  column  apiece  to 
the  subject,  and  several  of  them  prophesied  that  it  was  in 
grand  opera  that  Madame  Diana  Quentin  would  eventually 
find  the  setting  best  suited  to  her  gifts. 

"Mere  concert  work" — wrote  one  critic — "will  never  give 
her  the  scope  which  both  her  temperament  and  her  marvel- 
lous voice  demand." 

And  with  this  opinion  Baroni  cordially  concurred.  It  was 
his  ultimate  ambition  for  Diana  that  she  should  study  for 
grand  opera,  and  she  herself,  only  too  thankful  to  find  some- 
thing that  would  occupy  her  thoughts  and  take  her  right  out 
of  herself,  as  it  were,  enabling  her  to  forget  the  overthrow 
of  her  happiness,  flung  herself  into  the  work  with  enthusiasm. 

Gradually,  as  time  passed  on,  her  bitter  feelings  towards 
Max  softened  a  little.  That  light,  half-ironical  manner  he 
had  assumed  brought  back  to  her  so  vividly  the  Ma?  Erring- 
ton  of  the  early  days  of  their  acquaintance  that  it  recalled, 
too,  a  measure  of  the  odd  attraction  he  had  held  for  her  in 
that  far-away  time. 

That  he  still  visited  Adrienne  very  frequently  she  was 
aware,  bat  often,  on  hi*  return  from  Somervell  Street,  he 
seemed  so  much  depressed  that  she  began  at  last  to  wonder 
whether  those  visits  were  really  productive  of  any  actual 
enjoyment.  Possibly  she  had  misjudged  them — her  husband 
and  her  friend — and  it  might  conceivably  be  really  only  busi- 
ness matters  which  bound  them  together  after  all. 


218  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

If  so — if  that  were  true — how  wantonly  she  had  flung 
away  her  happiness! 

Late  one  afternoon,  Max,  who  had  been  out  since  early 
morning,  came  in  looking  thoroughly  worn  out.  His  eyes, 
ringed  with  fatigue,  held  an  alert  look  of  strain  and  anxiety 
for  which  Diana  was  at  a  loss  to  account. 

She  was  at  the  piano  when  he  entered  the  room,  idly  trying 
over  some  MS.  songs  that  had  been  submitted  by  aspiring 
composers  anxious  to  secure  her  interest. 

"Why,  Max,"  she  exclaimed,  genuine  concern  in  her 
voice,  as  she  rose  from  the  piano.  "How  worried  you  look ! 
What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"Nothing,"  he  returned.  "At  least,  nothing  in  which  you 
can  help,"  he  added  hastily.  "Unless " 

"Unless  what?  Please  ...  let  me  help  ...  if  I  can." 
Diana  spoke  rather  nervously.  She  was  suddenly  struck 
by  the  fact  that  the  last  few  months  had  been  responsible 
for  a  great  change  in  her  husband's  appearance.  He  looked 
much  thinner  and  older  than  formerly,  she  thought.  There 
were  harassed  lines  in  his  face,  and  its  worn  contours  and 
shadowed  eyes  called  aloud  to  the  compassionate  womanhood 
within  her,  to  the  mother-instinct  that  involuntarily  longs  to 
heal  and  soothe. 

"Tell  me  what  I  can  do,  Max  ?" 

A  smile  curved  his  lips,  half  whimsical,  half  sad. 

"You  can  do  for  me  what  you  do  for  all  the  rest  of  the 
world — I  won't  ask  more  of  you,"  he  replied.  "Sing  to  me." 

Diana  coloured  warmly.  The  first  part  of  his  speech 
stung  her  unbearably. 

"Sing  to  you  ?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.  I'm  very  tired,  and  nothing  is  more  restful  than 
music."  Then,  as  she  hesitated,  he  added,  "Unless,  of 
course,  I'm  asking  too  much." 

"You  know  you  are  not,"  she  answered  swiftly. 

She  resumed  her  place  at  the  piano,  and,  while  he  lay 
back  in  his  chair  with  closed  eyes,  she  sang  to  him — the 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  219 

music  of  the  old  masters  who  loved  melody,  and  into  whose 
songs  the  bitterness  and  unrest  of  the  twentieth  century  had 
not  crept. 

Presently,  she  thought,  he  slept,  and  very  softly  her  hands 
strayed  into  the  simple,  sorrowful  music  of  "The  Haven  of 
Memory,"  and  a  note  of  wistful  appeal,  not  all  of  art,  added 
a  new  depth  to  the  exquisite  voice. 

How  once  your  love 
But  crowned  and  blessed  me  only, 
Long  and  long  ago. 

The  refrain  died  into  silence,  and  Diana,  looking  up,  found 
Max's  piercing  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  He  was  not 
asleep,  then,  after  all. 

He  smiled  slightly  as  their  glances  met. 

"Do  you  remember  I  once  told  you  I  thought  'The  Hell 
of  Memory'  would  be  a  more  appropriate  title?  ...  I  was 
quite  right." 

"Max — "  Diana's  voice  quavered  and  broke. 

A  sudden  eager  light  sprang  into  his  face.  Swiftly  he 
came  to  her  side  and  stood  looking  down  at  her. 

"Diana,"  he  said  tensely,  "must  it  always  remain — the 
hell  of  memory  ?" 

They  were  very  near  to  each  other  in  that  moment;  the 
great  wall  fashioned  of  jealousy  and  distrust  was  tottering 
to  its  foundations. 

And  then,  from  the  street  below  came  the  high-pitched, 
raucous  sound  of  the  newsboy's  voice : — 

"Attempted  Mivrder  of  Miss  Adrian  Jervis!  Premier 
Theatre  Besieged." 

The  words,  with  their  deadly  import,  cut  between  husband 
and  wife  like  a  sword. 

"Good  God!"  The  exclamation  burst  from  Max  with  a 
cry  of  horror.  In  an  instant  he  was  out  of  the  room,  down 
the  stairs,  and  running  bareheaded  along  the  street  in  pur- 
suit of  the  newsboy,  and  a  few  seconds  later  he  was  back 
with  a  newspaper,  damp  from  the  press,  in  his  hands. 


220  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana  had  remained  sitting  just  as  lie  had  left  her.  She 
felt  numbed.  The  look  of  dread  and  consternation  that  had 
leaped  into  her  husband's  face,  as  the  news  came  shrilling 
up  from  the  street  below,  had  told  her,  more  eloquently  than 
any  words  could  do,  how  absolutely  his  life  was  bound  up  in 
that  of  Adrienne  de  Gervais.  A  man  whose  heart's  desire 
has  been  suddenly  snatched  from  him  might  look  so;  no 
other. 

Max,  oblivious  of  everything  else,  was  reading  the  brief 
newspaper  account  at  lightning  speed.  At  last — 

"I  must  go!"  he  said.  "I  must  go  round  to  Somervell 
Street  at  once." 

When  he  had  gone,  Diana  picked  up  the  newspaper  from 
the  floor  where  he  had  tossed  it,  and  smoothing  out  its 
crumpled  sheet,  proceeded  to  read  the  short  paragraph,  sur- 
mounted by  staring  head-lines,  which  had  sent  her  husband 
hurrying  hot-foot  to  Adrienne's  house. 

<rMuBDEBOus  ATTACK  ON  Miss  ADRIENNE  DE 
GEEVAIS. 

"As  Miss  Adrienne  de  Gervais,  the  popular  actress,  was 
leaving  the  Premier  Theatre  after  the  matinee  performance 
to-day,  a  man  rushed  out  from  a  side  'street  and  fired  three 
shots  at  her,  wounding  her  severely.  Miss  de  Gervais  was 
carried  into  the  theatre,  where  a  doctor  who  chanced  to  be 
passing  rendered  first  aid.  Within  a  very  few  minutes  the 
news  of  the  outrage  became  known  and  the  theatre  was  be- 
sieged by  inquirers.  The  would-be  assassin,  who  made  good 
his  escape,  was  a  man  of  unmistakably  foreign  appearance." 

Diana  laid  the  paper  down  very  quietly.  This,  then,  was 
the  news  which  had  power  to  bring  that  look  of  fear  and 
dread  to  her  husband's  face — fwhich  could  instantly  wipe  out 
from  his  mind  all  thoughts  of  his  wife  and  of  everything 
that  concerned  her. 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  221 

Perhaps,  she  reflected  scornfully,  it  was  as  well  that  the 
revelation  had  come  when  it  did!  Otherwise — otherwise, 
she  had  been  almost  on  the  verge  of  forgetting  her  just  cause 
for  jealousy,  forgetting  all  the  past  months  of  misery,  and 
believing  in  her  husband  once  again. 

The  trill  of  the  telephone  from  below  checked  her  bitter 
thoughts,  and  hurrying  downstairs  into  the  hall,  she  lifted 
the  receiver  and  held  it  to  her  ear. 

"Yes.    Who  is  it?" 

Possibly  something  was  wrong  with  the  wire,  or  perhaps 
it  was  only  that  Diana's  voice,  particularly  deep  and  low- 
pitched  for  a  woman,  misled  the  speaker  at  the  other  end. 
Whatever  it  may  have  been,  Adrienne's  voice,  rather  tremu- 
lous and  shaky,  came  through  the  'phone,  and  she  was  ob- 
viously under  the  impression  that  she  was  speaking  to 
Diana's  husband. 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Max?  Don't  be  frightened.  I'm  not 
badly  hurt.  I  hear  it's  already  in  the  papers,  and  as  I  knew 
you'd  be  nearly  mad  with  anxiety,  I've  made  the  doctor  let 
me  'phone  you  myself.  Of  course  you  can  guess  who  did 
it.  It  was  not  the  man  you  caught  waiting  about  outside  the 
theatre.  It  was  the  taller  one  of  the  two  we  saw  at  Charing 
Cross  that  day.  Please  come  round  as  soon  as  you  can." 

Diana's  lips  set  in  a  straight  line.  Very  deliberately  she 
replaced  the  receiver  and  rang  off  without  reply.  A  small, 
fine  smile  curved  her  lips  as  she  reflected  that,  within  a  few 
minutes,  Max's  arrival  at  Somervell  Street  would  enlighten 
Miss  de  Gervais  as  to  the  fact  that  she  had  been  pouring  out 
her  reassuring  remarks  to  the  wrong  person. 

Half  an  hour  later  Diana  came  slowly  downstairs,  dressed 
for  dinner.  Jerry  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall. 

"There's  a  'phone  message  just  come  through  from  Max," 
he  said,  a  trifle  awkwardly.  (Jerry  had  not  lived  through 
the  past  few  months  at  Lilac  Lodge  without  realising  the 
terms  on  which  the  Erringtons  stood  with  each  other.)  "He 
won't  be  back  till  late." 


222  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Diana  bestowed  her  sweetest  smile  upon  him. 

"Then  we  shall  be  dining  tete-a-tete.  How  nioel  Come 
along." 

She  took  his  arm  and  they  went  in  together. 

"This  is  a  very  serious  thing  about  Miss  de  Gervais,  isn't 
it  ?"  she  said  conversationally,  as  they  sat  down. 

"A  dastardly  business,"  assented  Jerry,  with  indignation. 

"I  suppose — did  Max  give  you  any  further  particulars  ?" 

"The  bullet's  broken  her  arm  just  above  the  elbow.  Of 
course  she  won't  be  able  to  play  for  some  time  to  come." 

"How  her  understudy  must  be  rejoicing,"  murmured 
Diana  reflectively. 

"It  seems,"  pursued  Jerry,  "that  the  shot  was  fired  by 
some  shady  actor  fellow.  Down  on  his  luck,  you  know,  and 
jealous  of  Miss  de  Gervais'  success.  At  least,  that's  what 
they  suspect,  and  Max  has  'phoned  me  to  send  a  paragraph 
to  all  the  morning  papers  to  that  effect." 

"That's  very  curious,"  commented  Diana, 

"Why  ?    I  should  think  it's  a  jolly  good  guess." 

Diana  smiled  enigmatically. 

"Anyhow,  it  sounds  a  very  natural  supposition,"  she 
agreed  lightly,  and  then  switched  the  conversation  on  to 
other  subjects.  Jerry,  however,  seemed  rather  absent  and 
distrait,  and  presently,  when  at  last  the  servants  had  handed 
the  coffee  and  withdrawn,  he  blurted  out : — 

"It  sounds  beastly  selfish  of  me,  but  this  affair  has  upset 
my  own  little  plans  rather  badly." 

"Yours,  Jerry  ?"  said  Diana  kindly.  "How's  that  ?  Give 
me  a  cigarette  and  tell  me  what's  gone  wrong." 

"What  would  Baroni  say  to  your  smoking?"  queried 
Jerry,  as  he  tendered  his  case  and  held  a  match  for  her  to 
light  her  cigarette. 

"I'm  not  singing  anywhere  for  a  week,"  laughed  Diana, 
"So  this  orgy  is  quite  legitimate."  And  she  inhaled  lux- 
uriously. "Now,  go  on,  Jerry,  what  plans  of  yours  have 
been  upset?" 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN  223 

"Well" — Jerry  reddened — "I  wrote  to  my  governor  the 
other  day.  It — it  was  to  please  Joan,  you  know." 

Diana  nodded,  her  grey  eyes  dancing. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  quite  understand." 

"And — and  here's  his  answer !" 

He  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  extracting  a  letter  from 
the  bundle  it  contained,  handed  it  to  Diana. 

"You  mean  you  want  me  to  read  this?" 

"Please." 

Diana  unfolded  it,  and  read  the  following  terse  com- 
munication : — 

"Come  home  and  bring  the  lady.  Am  fattening  the  calf. 
— Your  affectionate  Father." 

"Jerry,  I  should  adore  your  father,"  said  Diana,  as  she 
gave  him  back  the  letter.  "He  must  be  a  perfect  gem 
amongst  parents." 

"He's  not  a  bad  old  chap,"  acknowledged  Jerry,  as  he  re- 
placed the  paternal  invitation  in  his  pocket-book.  "But  you 
see  the  difficulty?  I  was  going  to  ask  Errington  to  give 
me  a  few  days'  leave,  and  I  don't  like  to  bother  him  now 
that  he  has  all  this  worry  about  Miss  de  Gervais  on  his 
hands." 

Diana  flushed  hotly  at  Jerry's  tacit  acceptance  of  the  fact 
that  Adrienne's  affairs  were  naturally  of  so  much  moment 
to  her  husband.  It  was  another  pin-prick  in  the  wound 
that  had  been  festering  for  so  long.  She  ignored  it,  how- 
ever, and  answered  quietly: — 

"Yes,  I  see.  Perhaps  you  had  better  leave  it  for  a  few 
days.  What  about  Pobs  ?  He'll  have  to  be  consulted  in  the 
matter,  won't  he?" 

"I  told  him,  long  ago,  that  I  wanted  Joan.  Before" — 
with  a  grin — "I  ever  summoned  up  pluck  to  tell  Joan  her- 
self!  He  was  a  brick  about  it,  but  he  thought  I  ought  to 
make  it  up  with  the  governor  before  Joan  and  I  were  for- 
mally engaged.  So  I  did — and  I'm  jolly  glad  of  it.  And 


€24  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

now  I  want  to  go  down  to  Crailing,  and  fetch  Joan,  and  take 
her  with  me  to  Abbotsleigh.  So  I  should  want  at  least  a 
week  off." 

"Well,  wait  till  Max  comes  hack,"  advised  Diana.  "We 
shall  know  more  about  the  matter  then.  And — and — 
Jerry!"  She  stretched  out  her  hand,  which  immediately 
disappeared  within  Jerry's  big,  boyish  fist.  "Good  luck, 
old  boy!" 

**••••* 

Max  returned  at  about  ten  o'clock,  and  Diana  proceeded 
to  offer  polite  inquiries  about  Miss  de  Gervais'  welfare. 
She  wondered  if  he  would  remember  how  near  they  had 
been  to  each  other  just  for  an  instant  before  the  news  of  the 
attempt  upon  Adrienne's  life  had  reached  them. 

But  apparently  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  His 
thoughts  were  entirely  concerned  with  Adrienne,  and  he 
was  unusually  grave  and  preoccupied. 

He  ordered  a  servant  to  bring  him  some  sandwiches  and 
a  glass  of  wine,  and  when  he  and  Diana  were  once  more 
alone,  he  announced  abruptly: — 

"I  shall  have  to  leave  home  for  a  few  days." 

"Leave  home  ?"  echoed  Diana. 

"Yes.  Adrienne  must  go  out  of  town,  and  I'm  going  to 
run  down  to  some  little  country  place  and  find  rooms  for 
her  and  Mrs.  Adams." 

"Find  rooms?"  Diana  stared  at  him  amazedly.  "But 
surely — won't  they  go  to  Red  Gables?" 

Max  shook  his  head. 

"No.  It  wouldn't  be  safe  after  this — this  affair.  The 
same  brute  might  try  to  get  her  again.  You  see,  it's  quite 
Well  known  that  she  has  a  house  at  Crailing." 

"Who  is  it  that  is  such  such  an  enemy  of  hers  ?" 

Max  hesitated  a  moment. 

"It  might  very  well  be  some  former  actor,  some  poor  devil 
of  a  fellow  down  on  his  luck,  who  has  brooded  over  his 
fancied  wrongs  till  he  was  half-mad,"  he  said,  at  length. 


THE  OTHEK  WOMAN  225 

Diana's  eyes  flashed.  So  that  item  of  news  intended  for 
the  morning  papers  was  also  to  be  handed  out  for  home  eon- 
sumption  ! 

"What  steps  are  you  taking  to  trace  the  man?" 

Again  Max  paused  before  replying.  To  Diana,  his  hesi-? 
tation  strengthened  her  conviction  that  he  was,  as  usual, 
withholding  something  from  her. 

"Well?"  she  repeated.     "What  steps  are  you  taking V 

"None,"  he  answered  at  last  reluctantly.  "Adrienne 
doesn't  wish  any  fuss  made  over  the  matter." 

And  yet,  Diana  reflected,  both  her  husband  and  Miss  de 
Gervais  knew  quite  well  who  the  assailant  was !  "The  taller 
of  the  two,"  Adrienne  had  said  through  the  telephone. 
Why,  then,  with  that  clue  in  her  hands,  did  she  refuse  to 
prosecute  ? 

Suddenly,  into  Diana's  mind  flashed  an  answer  to  the 
question — to  the  multitude  of  questions  which  had  perplexed 
her  for  so  long.  She  felt  as  a  traveller  may  who  has  been 
journeying  along  an  unknown  way  in  the  dark,  hurt  and 
bruised  by  stones  and  pitfalls  he  could  not  see,  when  sud- 
denly a  light  shines  out,  revealing  all  the  dangers  of  the 
path. 

The  explanation  of  all  those  perplexities  and  suspi- 
cions of  the  past  was  so  simple,  so  obvious,  that  she  mar- 
velled why  it  had  never  occurred  to  her  before.  Adrienne 
de  Gervais  was  neither  more  or  less  than  an  adventuress 
— one  of  the  vampire  type  of  woman  who  preys  upon  man- 
kind, drawing  them  into  her  net  by  her  beauty  and  charm, 
even  as  she  had  drawn  Max  himself!  This,  this  supplied 
the  key  to  the  whole  matter — all  that  had  gone  before,  and 
all  that  was  now  making  such  a  mockery  of  her  married  Ufa 

And  the  "poor  devil  of  a  fellow"  who  had  attempted 
Adrienne's  life  had  probably  figured  largely  in  her  past,  ono 
of  her  dupes,  and  now,  understanding  at  last  what  kind  of 
woman  it  was  for  whom  he  had  very  likely  sacrificed  all 
that  made  existence  worth  while,  he  was  obsessed  with  a 


226  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

orazy  desire  for  vengeance — vengeance  at  any  price.  And 
Adrienne,  of  course,  in  her  extremity,  had  turned  to  her 
latest  captive,  Max  himself,  for  protection! 

Oh!  it  was  all  quite  clear  now!  The  scattered  pieces  of 
the  puzzle  were  fitting  together  and  making  a  definite  pic* 
turn 

Stray  remarks  of  Olga  Lermontofs  came  back  to  her— 
those  little  pointed  arrows  wherewith  the  Russian  had  skiL 
fully  found  out  the  jointe  in  her  armour — "Miss  de  Gervais 
id  not  quite  what  she  seems."  And  again,  "I'm  perfectly 
sure  Adrienne  de  Gervais'  past  is  a  closed  book  to  you." 
Proof  positive  that  Olga  had  known  all  along  what  Diana 
had  only  just  this  moment  perceived  to  be  the  truth. 

Diana's  small  hands  clenched  themselves  until  the  nails 
dug  into  the  soft  palms,  as  she  remembered  how  those  same 
hands  had  been  held  out  in  friendship  to  this  very  adven- 
turess— to  the  woman  who  had  wrecked  her  happiness,  and 
fox  whom  Max  was  ready  at  any  time  to  set  her  and  her 
wishes  upon  one  side  I  What  a  blind,  trusting  fool  she 
had  been !  Well,  that  was  all  ended  now ;  she  knew  where 
she  stood.  Never  again  would  Max  or  Adrienne  be  able  to 
deceive  her.  The  scales  had  at  last  fallen  from  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,  Diana" — Max's  cool,  quiet  tones  broke  in  on 
the  torment  of  her  thoughts.  "I'm  sorry,  but  I  shall  prob- 
ably have  to  be  away  several  days." 

"Have  you  forgotten  we're  giving  a  big  reception  here 
next  Wednesday?" 

"Wednesday,  is  it?  And  to-day  is  Saturday.  I  shall 
find  rooms  somewhere  to-morrow,  and  take  Adrienne  and 
Mrs.  Adams  down  to  them  the  next  day.  .  .  .  No,  I  can't 
possibly  be  back  for  Wednesday." 

"But  you  must !" — impetuously. 

"It's  impossible.  I  shall  stay  with  Adrienne  and  Mrs. 
Adams  until  I'm  quite  sure  that  the  place  is  safe  for  them 
— that  that  fellow  hasn't  traced  them  and  isn't  lurking  about 
in  the  neighbourhood.  You  mustn't  expect  me  back  before 


THE  OTHEE  WOMAN  227 

Saturday  at  the  earliest.  You  and  Jerry  can  manage  the 
reception.  I  hate  those  big  crowds,  as  you  know." 

For  a  moment  Diana  sat  in  stony  silence.  So  he  in-- 
tended  to  leave  her  to  entertain  half  London — that  half  of 
London  that  mattered  and  would  talk  ahout  it — while  he 
spent  a  pleasant  week  philandering  down  in  the  country  with 
Adrienne  de  Gervais,  under  the  aegis  of  Mrs.  Adams'  chap- 
eronage ! 

Very  slowly  Diana  rose  to  her  feet.  Her  small  face 
was  white  and  set,  her  little  pointed  chin  thrust  out,  and 
her  grey  eyes  were  almost  black  with  the  intense  anger  that 
gripped  her. 

"Do  you  mean  this?"  she  asked  collectedly. 

"Why,  of  course.  Don't  you  see  that  I  must,  Diana?  I 
can't  let  Adrienne  run  a  risk  like  that." 

"But  you  can  subject  your  wife  to  an  insult  like  that 
without  thinking  twice  about  it!" — contemptuously.  "It 
hasn't  occurred  to  you,  I  suppose,  what  people  will  say 
when  they  find  that  I  have  been  left  entirely  alone  to  enter- 
tain our  friends,  while  my  husband  passes  a  pleasant  week 
in  the  country  with  Miss  de  Gervais,  and  her — chaperon? 
It's  an  insult  to  our  guests  as  well  as  to  me.  But  I  quite 
understand.  I,  and  my  friends,  simply  don't  count  when, 
Adrienne  de  Gervais  wants  you." 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  answered  stubbornly,  her  scorn 
moving  him  less  than  the  waves  that  break  in  a  shower  of 
foam  at  the  foot  of  a  cliff.  "You  knew  you  would  have 
to  trust  me." 

"Trust  you?"  cried  Diana,  shaken  out  of  her  composure, 
"Yes!  But  I  never  promised  to  stand  trustingly  by  white 
you  put  another  woman  in  my  place.  This  is  the  end, 
Max.  I've  had  enough." 

A  sudden  look  of  apprehension  dawned  in  his  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"What  do  I  mean?" — bleakly.  "Oh,  nothing.  I  never 
do  mean  anything,  do  I?  ...  Well,  good-bye.  I  expect 


228  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

you'll  have  left  the  house  before  I  come  down  to-morrow 
morning.  I  hope  .  .  .  you'll  enjoy  your  visit  to  the  coun- 
try." 

She  waited  a  moment,  as  though  expecting  some  reply; 
then,  aa  he  neither  stirred  nor  spoke,  she  went  quickly  out 
of  the  room,  closing  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE   PASTING   OP    THE   WATS 

JERRY" — Diana  came  into  her  husband's  study,  where 
his  secretary,  who  had  nothing  further  to  do  until  his 
employer's  return,  was  pottering  about  putting  the  book- 
shelves to  rights.     "Jerry,  I'm  going  to  give  you  a  holiday. 
You  can  go  down  to  Crailing  to-day." 

Jerry  turned  round  in  surprise. 

"But,  I  say,  Diana,  I  can't,  you  know — not  while  Max 
is  away.  I'm  supposed  to  make  myself  useful  to  you." 

"Well,  I  think  you  did  make  yourself — very  useful — 
last  night,  didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  that!"  Jerry  shrugged  his  shouldera  Then,  sur- 
veying her  critically,  he  added:  "You  look  awfully  tired 
this  morning,  Di !" 

She  did.  There  were  purple  shadows  beneath  her  eyes, 
and  her  face  looked  white  and  drawn.  The  previous  eve- 
ning had  been  the  occasion  of  her  reception,  and  she  had 
carried  it  pluckily  through  single-handed.  Quiet  and  com- 
posed, she  had  moved  about  amongst  her  guests,  covering 
Max's  absence  with  a  light  touch  and  pretty  apology,  her 
demeanour  so  natural  and  unembarrassed  that  the  tongues, 
which  would  otherwise  have  wagged  swiftly  enough,  were 
inevitably  stilled. 

But  the  strain  had  told  upon  her.  This  morning  she 
looked  haggard  and  ill,  more  fit  to  be  in  bed  than  anything 
else. 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  all  right  after  a  night's  rest,"  she  answered 
cheerfully.  "And  as  to  making  yourself  useful  there's 

229 


230  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

really  nothing  I  want  you  to  do  for  me.  But  I  do  want  you 
to  go  and  make  your  peace  with  your  father,  and  take  Joan 
to  him.  I'm  sure  he'll  love  her !  So  I'm  writing  to  Max, 
telling  him  that  I've  given  you  leave  of  absence.  He  won't 
be  returning  till  Saturday  at  the  earliest,  and  probably  not 
then.  If  he  wants  you  back  on  Monday,  we'll  wire." 

Jerry  hesitated. 

"Are  you  sure  it  will  be  quite  all  right?  I  don't  really 
like  leaving  you." 

"Quite  all  right,"  she  assured  him.  "I  did  want  you  for 
the  party  last  night,  and  you  were  the  greatest  possible  help 
to  ma  But  now,  I  don't  want  you  a  bit  for  anything.  If 
you're  quick,  you  can  catch  the  two  o'clock  down  express 
and" — twinkling — "see  Joan  this  evening." 

"Diana,  you're  a  brick!"  And  Jerry  dashed  upstairs 
to  pack  his  suit-case. 

Diana  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  when,  a  few  hours  later,  a 
triumphant  and  joyous  Jerry  departed  in  search  of  a  bride. 
She  wanted  him  out  of  title  house,  for  that  which  she  had 
decided  to  do  would  be  more  easily  accomplished  without 
the  boy's  honest,  affectionate  e$**  beseeching  her. 

All  her  arrangements  were  completed,  and  to-morrow — 
to-morrow  she  was  going  to  leave  Lilac  Lodge  for  ever. 
Never  again  would  she  share  the  life  of  the  man  who  had 
shown  her  clearly  that,  although  she  was  his  wife,  she 
counted  with  him  so  infinitely  less  than  that  other — than 
Adrienne  de  Gervais.  Her  pride  might  break  in  the  leav- 
ing, but  it  would  bend  to  living  under  the  same  roof  with 
him  no  longer. 

Only  one  thing  still  remained — to  write  a  letter  to  her 
husband  and  leave  it  in  his  study  for  him  to  find  upon  hia 
return.  It  savoured  a  little  of  the  theatrical,  she  reflected, 
but  there  seemed  no  other  way  possible.  She  didn't  want 
Max  to  come  in  search  of  her,  so  she  must  make  it  clear 
to  him  that  she  was  leaving  him  deliberately  and  with  no 
intention  of  ever  returning. 


THE  PAKTING  OF  THE  WAYS  231 

She  had  told  the  servants  that  she  was  going  away  on  a 
few  days'  visit,  and  after  Jerry's  departure  she  gave  her 
maid  instructions  concerning  her  packing.  She  intended  to 
leave  the  house  quite  openly  the  following  morning.  That 
was  much  the  easiest  method  of  running  away. 

"Shall  you  require  me  with  you,  madam?"  asked  her 
maid  respectfully. 

Diana  regarded  her  thoughtfully.  She  was  an  excel- 
lent servant  and  thoroughly  understood  maiding  a  profes- 
sional singer;  moreover,  she  was  much  attached  to  her  mis- 
tress. Probably  she  would  be  glad  of  her  services  later  on. 

"Oh,  if  I  should  make  a  long  gtay,  I'll  send  for  you, 
Milling,  and  you  can  bring  on  the  rest  of  my  things.  I  shall 
want  some  of  my  concert  gowns  the  week  after  next,"  she 
told  her,  in  casual  tones. 

As  soon  as  she  had  dismissed  the  girl  to  her  work,  Diana 
made  her  way  into  her  husband's  study,  and,  seating  herself 
at  his  desk,  drew  a  sheet  of  notepaper  towards  her. 

She  began  to  write  impulsively,  as  she  did  everything 
else: — 

"This  is  just  to  say  good-bye," — her  pen  flew  over  tfre 
paper — "I  can't  bear  our  life  together  any  longer,  so  I'm 
going  away  Perhaps  you  will  blame  me  because  my  faith 
wasn't  equal  to  the  task  you  set  it.  But  I  don't  think  any 
woman's  would  be — not  if  she  cared  at  all.  And  I  did  care, 
Max.  It  hurts  to  care  as  I  did — and  I'm  so  tired  of  being 
hurt  that  I'm  running  away  from  it,  It  will  be  of  no  use 
your  asking  me  to  return,  because  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
never  to  come  back  to  you  again.  I  told  you  that  you  must 
choose  between  Adrienne  and  me,  and  you've  chosen — Adri- 
enne.  I  am  going  to  live  with  Baroni  and  his  sister,  Signora 
Evanci.  It  is  all  arranged.  They  are  glad  to  have  me,  and 
it  will  be  much  easier  for  me  as  regards  my  singing.  So 
you  needn't  worry  about  ma — But  perhaps  you  wouldn't 
have  done!  "DIANA. 


232  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"P.S. — Please  don't  be  vexed  with  Jerry  for  going  away. 
I  gave  him  leave  of  absence  myself,  and  I  told  him  I  would 
make  it  all  right  with  you. — D." 

She  folded  the  letter  with  a  curious  kind  of  precision, 
slipped  it  into  an  envelope,  sealed  and  addressed  it,  and 
propped  it  up  against  the  inkpot  on  her  husband's  desk, 
so  that  he  could  not  fail  to  find  it. 

Then,  when  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  she  went  up- 
stairs and  let  her  maid  put  her  into  an  evening  frock,  ex- 
actly as  though  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  were  going  on, 
just  as  though  to-day — the  last  day  she  would  ever  spend  in 
her  husband's  home — were  no  different  from  any  other  day. 

She  made  a  pretence  of  eating  dinner,  and  afterwards 
sat  in  her  own  little  sitting-room,  with  a  book  in  front  of 
her,  of  which  she  read  not  a  single  line. 

Presently,  when  she  was  quite  sure  that  all  the  servants 
had  gone  to  bed,  she  made  a  pilgrimage  through  the  house, 
moving  reluctantly  from  room  to  room,  taking  a  silent  fare- 
well of  the  place  where  she  had  known  such  happiness — 
and  afterwards,  such  pain. 

At  last  she  went  to  bed,  but  she  felt  too  restless  and 
keyed  up  to  sleep,  so  she  slipped  into  a  soft,  silken  wrapper 
and  established  herself  in  a  big  easy-chair  by  the  fire. 

The  latter  had  died  down  into  a  dull,  red  glow,  but  she 
prodded  the  embers  into  a  flame,  adding  fresh  coal,  and  as 
the  pleasant  warmth  of  it  lapped  her  round,  a  feeling  of 
gentle  languor  gradually  stole  over  her,  and  at  length  she 
slept.  .  .  . 

She  woke  with  a  start.  Some  one  was  trying  the  handle 
of  the  door — very  quietly,  but  yet  not  at  all  as  though  mak- 
ing any  attempt  to  conceal  the  fact. 

Something  must  be  amiss,  and  one  of  the  maids  had  come 
to  warn  her.  The  possibility  that  the  house  was  on  fire, 
or  that  burglars  had  broken  in,  flashed  through  her  mind. 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS  233 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  switching  on  the  light,  called 
out  sharply: — 

"Who  is  it?" 

She  had  not  fastened  the  lock  overnight,  and  her  heart 
beat  in  great  suffocating  throbs  as  she  watched  the  handle 
turn. 

The  next  moment  some  one  came  quickly  into  the  room 
and  closed  the  door. 

It  was  Max ! 

Diana  fell  back  a  step,  staring  incredulously. 

"You!"  she  exclaimed,  breathlessly.     "You!" 

He  advanced  a  few  paces  into  the  room.  He  was  very 
pale,  and  his  face  wore  a  curiously  excited  expression. 
His  eyes  were  brilliant — fiercely  exultant,  yet  with  an  odd 
gleam  of  the  old,  familiar  mockery  in  their  depths,  as 
though  something  in  the  situation  amused  him. 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "Are  you  surprised  to  see  me?" 

"You — you  said  you  were  not  returning  till  Saturday," 
she  stammered. 

"I  found  I  could  get  away  sooner  than  I  expected,  so  I 
caught  the  last  up-train — and  here  I  am." 

There  was  a  rakish,  devil-may-care  note  in  his  voice  that 
filled  her  with  a  vague  apprehension.  Summoning  up  her 
courage,  she  faced  him,  striving  to  keep  her  voice  steadj. 

"And  why — why  have  you  come  to  me — now?" 

"I  found  your  note — the  note  you  had  left  on  my  desk, 
so  I  thought  I  would  like  to  say  good-bye,"  he  answered 
carelessly. 

"You  could  have  waited  till  to-morrow  morning,"  she  re- 
turned coldly.  "You — you" — she  stammered  a  little,  and 
a  faint  flush  tinged  her  pallor — "you  should  not  have  come 
.  .  .  hera" 

A  sudden  light  gleamed  in  his  eyes,  mocking  and  tri- 
umphant. 

"It  is  my  wife's  room.  A  husband" — slowly — "has 
certain  rights," 


234=  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Ah-h!"  She  caught  her  breath,  and  her  hand  flew  to 
her  throat. 

"And  since,"  he  continued  cruelly,  never  taking  his  eyes 
from  her  face,  "since  those  rights  are  to  be  rescinded  to- 
morrow for  ever — why,  then,  to-night " 

"No!  .  .  .  No!"  She  shrank  from  him,  her  hands 
stretched  out  as  though  to  ward  him  off. 

"You've  said  'no'  to  me  for  the  last  six  months,"  he  said 
grimly.  "But — that's  ended  now." 

Her  eyes  searched  his  face  wildly,  reading  only  a  set  de- 
termination in  it.  Slowly,  desperately,  she  backed  away 
from  him ;  then,  suddenly,  she  made  a  little  rush,  and,  reach- 
ing the  door,  pulled  at  the  handle.  But  it  remained  fast 
shut. 

"It's  locked!"  she  cried,  frantically  tugging  at  it.  She 
flashed  round  upon  him.  "The  key!  Where's  the  key?" 
The  words  came  sobbingly. 

He  put  his  fingers  in  his  pocket. 

"Here,"  he  answered  coolly. 

Despairingly  she  retreated  from  the  door.  There  was  an 
expression  in  his  eyes  that  terrified  her — a  furnace  heat 
of  passion  barely  held  in  check.  The  Englishman  within 
him  was  in  abeyance;  the  hot,  foreign  blood  was  leaping  in 
his  veins. 

"Max!"  she  faltered  appealingly. 

He  crossed  swiftly  to  her  side,  gripping  her  soft,  bare 
arms  in  a  hold  so  fierce  that  his  fingers  scored  them  with 
red  weals. 

"By  God,  Diana!  What  do  you  think  I'm  made  of?" 
he  burst  out  violently.  "For  months  you've  shut  yourself 
away  from  me  and  I've  borne  it,  waiting — waiting  always 
for  you  to  come  back  to  me.  Do  you  think  it's  been  easy  ?" 
His  limbs  were  shaking,  and  his  eyes  burned  into  hers. 
"And  now — now  you  tell  me  that  you've  done  with  me.  .  .  . 
You  take  everything  from  me!  My  love  is  to  count  for 
nothing!" 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS  235 

"You  never  loved  me!"  she  protested,  with  low,  breath- 
less vehemence.  "It — it  could  never  have  been  love." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  staring  at  her. 

Then  he  laughed. 

"Very  well.  Call  it  desire,  passion — what  you  will  I"  he 
exclaimed  brutally.  "But — you  married  me,  you  know!" 

She  cowered  away  from  him,  looking  to  right  and  left 
like  a  trapped  animal  seeking  to  escape,  but  he  held  her 
ruthlessly,  forcing  her  to  face  him. 

All  at  once,  her  nerve  gave  way,  and  she  began  to  cry 
— helpless,  despairing  weeping,  that  rocked  the  slight  form 
in  his  grasp.  As  she  stood  thus,  the  soft  silk  of  her  wrap- 
per falling  in  straight  folds  about  her,  her  loosened  hair 
shadowing  her  white  face,  she  looked  pathetically  small  and 
young,  and  Errington  suddenly  relinquished  his  hold  of 
her  and  stepped  back,  his  hands  slowly  clenching  in  the  ef- 
fort not  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

Something  tugged  at  his  heart,  pulling  against  the  desire 
that  ran  riot  in  his  veins — something  of  the  infinite  tender- 
ness of  love  which  exists  side  by  side  with  its  passion. 

"Don't  look  like  that,"  he  said  hoarsely.     "I'll— I'll  go." 

He  crossed  the  room,  reeling-  a  little  in  his  stride,  and, 
unlocking  the  door,  flung  it  open. 

She  stared  at  him,  incredulous  relief  in  her  face,  while 
the  tears  still  slid  unchecked  down  her  cheeks. 

"Max — "  she  stammered. 

"Yes,"  he  returned.  "You're  free  of  me.  I  don't  sup- 
pose you'll  believe  it,  but  I  love  you  too  much  to  ...  take 
.  .  .  what  you  won't  give." 

A  minute  later  the  door  closed  behind  him  and  she  heard 
his  footsteps  descending  the  stairs. 

With  a  low  moan  she  sank  down  beside  the  bed,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands,  sobbing  convulsively. 


CHAPTEE  XXHI 

PAIBT 

OUMMER  had  come  and  gone,  and  Diana,  after  a  brief 
^•J  visit  to  Crailing,  had  returned  to  town  for  the  winter 
season. 

The  Crailing  visit  had  not  been  altogether  without  its 
embarrassments.  It  was  true  that  Red  Gables  was  closed 
and  shuttered,  so  that  she  had  run  no  risk  of  meeting  either 
her  husband  or  Adrienne,  but  Jerry,  in  the  character  of 
an  engaged  young  man,  had  been  staying  at  the  Rectory,  and 
he  had  allowed  Diana  to  see  plainly  that  his  sympathies 
lay  pre-eminently  with  Max,  and  that  he  utterly  condemned 
her  lack  of  faith  in  her  husband. 

"Some  day,  Diana,  you'll  be  sorry  that  you  chucked  one 
of  the  best  chaps  in  the  world,"  he  told  her,  with  a  fierce 
young  championship  that  was  rather  touching,  warring,  as 
it  did,  with  his  honest  affection  for  Diana  herself.  "Oh !  It 
makes  me  sick !  You  two  ought  to  have  had  such  a  splendid 
life  together." 

Rather  wistfully,  Diana'  asked  the  Rector  if  he,  too, 
blamed  her  entirely  for  what  had  occurred.  But  Alan 
Stair's  wide  charity  held  no  room  for  censure. 

"My  dear,"  he  told  her,  "I  don't  think  I  want  to  blame 
either  you  or  Max.  The  situation  was  difficult,  and  you 
weren't  quite  strong  enough  to  cope  with  it.  That's  all.  But" 
— with  one  of  his  rare  smiles  that  flashed  out  like  sunshine 
after  rain — "you  haven't  reached  the  end  of  the  chapter  yet." 

Diana  shook  her  head. 

"I  think  we  have,  Fobs.     I,  for  one,  shall  never  reopen 

236 


PAIN  387 

the  peges.  My  musical  work  is  going  to  fill  my  life  in  fu- 
ture." 

Stair's  eyes  twinkled  with  a  quiet  humour. 

"Sponge  cake  is  filling,  my  dear,  very,"  he  responded. 
"But  it's  not  satisfying — like  bread." 

Since  Diana  had  left  her  hushand,  fate  had  so  willed  it 
that  they  had  never  chanced  to  meet  She  had  appeared 
very  little  in  society,  excusing  herself  on  the  plea  that  her 
professional  engagements  demanded  all  her  energies.  And 
certainly,  since  the  immediate  and  overwhelming  success 
which  she  had  achieved  at  Covent  Garden,  her  operatic 
work  had  made  immense  demands  both  upon  her  time  and 
physical  strength. 

But,  with  the  advent  of  autumn,  the  probabilities  of  a 
meeting  between  husband  and  wife  were  increased  a  hun- 
dredfold, since  Diana's  engagements  included  a  considerable 
number  of  private  receptions  in  addition  to  her  concert 
work,  and  she  never  sang  at  a  big  society  crush  without  an 
inward  apprehension  that  she  might  encounter  Max  amongst 
the  guests. 

She  shrank  from  meeting  him  again  as  a  wounded  man 
shrinks  from  an  accidental  touch  upon  his  hurt.  It  had 
been  easy  enough,  in  the  first  intolerant  passion  which  had 
overwhelmed  her,  to  contemplate  life  apart  from  him.  In- 
deed, to  leave  him  had  seemed  the  only  obvious  course  to 
save  her  from  the  daily  flagellation  of  her  love,  the  hourly 
insult  to  her  dignity,  that  his  relations  with  Adrienne  de 
Gervais  and  the  whole  mystery  which  hung  about  his  aotiona 
had  engendered. 

But  when  once  the  cord  had  been  cut,  and  life  in  its  ac- 
tuality had  to  be  faced  apart  from  him,  Diana  found  that 
love,  hurt  and  buffeted  though  it  may  be,  still  remains  love, 
a  thing  of  flame  and  fire,  its  very  essence  a  desire  for  the 
loved  one's  presence. 

Every  fibre  of  her  being  cried  aloud  for  Max,  and  there 


238  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

were  times  when  the  longing  for  the  warm,  human  touch  of 
his  hand,  for  the  sound  of  his  voice,  grew  almost  unbear- 
able. Yet  any  meeting  between  them  could  be  but  a  bar- 
ren reminder  of  the  past,  revitalising  the  dull  ache  of  long- 
ing into  a  quick  and  overmastering  agony;  and,  realising 
this,  Diana  recoiled  from  the  possibility  with  a  fear  almost 
bordering  upon  panic. 

She  achieved  a  certain  feeling  of  security  in  the  fact  that 
she  had  made  her  home  with  Baroni  and  his  sister.  Signora 
Evanci  mothered  her  and  petted  her  and  fussed  over  her, 
much  as  she  did  over  Baroni  himself,  and  the  old  maestro, 
aware  of  the  tangle  of  Diana's  matrimonial  affairs,  and  am- 
bitious for  her  artistic  future,  was  likely  to  do  his  utmost  to 
avert  a  meeting  between  husband  and  wife — since  emotional 
crises  are  apt  to  impair  the  voice. 

From  Baroni's  point  of  view,  the  happenings  of  life  were 
chiefly  of  importance  in  so  far  as  they  tended  towards  the 
perfecting  of  the  artiste. 

"Love  is  good,"  he  had  said  on  one  occasion.  "No  one 
can  interpret  romantic  music  who  has  not  loved.  And  a 
broken  heart  in  the  past,  and  plenty  of  good  food  in  the 
present — these  may  very  well  make  a  great  artiste.  But  a 
heart  that  keeps  on  breaking,  that  is  not  permitted  to  heal 
itself — no,  that  is  not  good.  A  la  fin,  the  voice  breaks 
also." 

Hence  he  regarded  his  favourite  pupil  with  considerable 
anxiety.  To  his  experienced  eye  it  was  palpable  that  the 
happenings  of  her  married  life  had  tried  Diana's  strength 
almost  to  breaking  point,  and  that  the  enthusiasm  and  en- 
ergy with  which,  seeking  an  anodyne  to  pain,  she  had  flung 
herself  into  her  work,  would  act  either  one  way  or  the  other 
— would  either  finish  the  job,  so  that  the  frayed  nerves 
gave  way,  culminating  in  a  serious  breakdown  of  her  health, 
or  so  fill  her  horizon  that  the  memories  of  the  past  grad- 
ually receded  into  insignificance. 

The  cup  of  fame,  newly  held  to  her  lips,  could  not  but 


PAIN  239 

prove  an  intoxicating  draught.  There  was  a  rushing  excite- 
ment, an  exhilaration  about  her  life  as  a  well-known  public 
singer,  which  acted  as  a  constant  stimulus.  The  enthusias- 
tic acclamations  with  which  she  was  everywhere  received, 
the  adulation  that  invariably  surrounded  her,  and  the  in- 
tense joy  which,  as  a  genuine  artist,  she  derived  from  the 
work  itself,  all  acted  as  a  narcotic  to  the  pain  of  memory, 
and  out  of  these  she  tried  to  build  up  a  new  life  for  herself, 
a  life  in  which  love  should  have  neither  part  nor  lot,  but 
wherein  added  fame  and  recognition  was  to  be  the  ultimate 
goal. 

Her  singing  had  improved;  there  was  a  new  depth  of 
feeling  in  her  interpretation  which  her  own  pain  and  suf- 
fering had  taught  her,  and  it  was  no  infrequent  thing  for 
part  of  her  audience  to  be  moved  to  tears,  wistfully  reminded 
of  some  long-dead  romance,  when  she  sang  "The  Haven  of 
Memory" — a  song  which  came  to  be  associated  with  her 
name  much  in  the  same  way  that  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  was 
associated  with  another  great  singer,  whose  golden  voice 
gave  new  meaning  to  the  familiar  words. 

Olga  Lermontof  still  remained  her  accompanist  For 
some  unfathomed  reason  she  no  longer  flung  out  the  bitter 
gibes  and  thrusts  at  Errington  which  had  formerly  sprung 
so  readily  to  her  lips,  and  Diana  grimly  ascribed  this  for- 
bearance to  an  odd  kind  of  delicacy — the  generosity  of  the 
victor  who  refuses  to  triumph  openly  over  the  vanquished! 

Once,  in  a  bitter  mood,  Diana  had  taxed  her  with  it. 

"You  must  feel  satisfied  now  that  you  have  achieved  your 
object,"  she  told  her. 

The  Kussian,  idly  improvising  on  the  piano,  dropped  her 
hands  from  the  keys,  and  her  eyes  held  a  queer  kind  of  pain 
in  them  as  she  made  answer. 

"And  what  exactly  did  you  think  my  object  was?"  she 
queried. 

"Surely  it  was  obvious  ?"  replied  Diana  lightly.  "When 
Max  and  I  were  together,  you  never  ceased  to  sow  discord 


240  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

between  us — though  why  you  hated  him  so,  I  cannot  tell 
— and  now  that  we  have  separated,  I  suppose  you  are  con- 
tent." 

"Content?"  Olga  laughed  shortly.  "I  never  wanted  you 
to  separate.  And" — she  hesitated — "I  never  hated  Max  Er- 
rington." 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  The  assertion  leaped  involuntarily 
from  Diana's  lips. 

"I  can  understand  that."  Olga  spoke  with  a  curious 
kind  of  patience.  "But,  believe  it  or  not  as  you  will,  I  was 
working  for  quite  other  ends.  And  I've  failed,"  she  added 
dispiritedly. 

With  the  opening  of  the  autumn  season  and  the  ensuing 
rebirth  of  musical  and  theatrical  life,  London  received  an 
unexpected  shock.  It  was  announced  that  Adrienne  de  Ger- 
vais  was  retiring  from  her  position  as  leading  lady  at  the 
Premier  Theatre,  and  for  a  few  days  after  the  launching 
of  this  thunderbolt  the  theatre-going  world  hummed  with 
the  startling  news,  while  a  dozen  rumours  were  set  on  foot 
to  account  for  what  must  surely  prove  little  less  than  a 
disaster  to  the  management  of  the  Premier. 

But,  as  usual,  after  the  first  buzz  of  surprise  and  excite- 
ment had  spent  itself,  people  settled  down,  and  reluctantly 
accepted  the  official  explanation  furnished  by  the  news- 
papers— namely,  that  the  popular  actress  had  suffered  con- 
siderably in  health  from  the  strain  of  several  successive 
heavy  seasons  and  intended  to  winter  abroad. 

To  Diana  the  news  yielded  an  odd  sense  of  comfort. 
Somehow  the  thought  of  Adrienne's  absence  from  England 
seemed  to  bring  Max  nearer,  to  make  him  more  her  own 
again.  Even  though  they  were  separated,  there  was  a  cer- 
tain consolation  in  the  knowledge  that  the  woman  whose 
close  friendship  with  her  husband  had  helped  to  make  ship- 
wreck of  their  happiness  was  going  out  of  his  life,  though 
it  might  be  only  for  a  little  time. 

One   day,   impelled  by  an  irresistible  desire  to  test  the 


PAEST  241 

truth  of  the  newspaper  reports,  Diana  took  her  way  to 
Somervell  Street,  pausing  opposite  the  house  that  had  been 
Adrienne's.  She  found  it  invested  with  a  curious  air  of 
unfamiliarity,  facing  the  street  with  blank  and  shuttered 
windows,  like  blind  eyes  staring-  back  at  her  unreeognis- 
ingly. 

So  it  was  true !  Adrienne  had  gone  away  and  the  house 
was  empty  and  closed. 

Diana  retraced  her  steps  homeward,  conscious  of  a  queer 
feeling  of  satisfaction.  Often  the  thought  that  Max  and 
Adrienne  might  be  together  had  tortured  her  almost  be- 
yond endurance,  adding  a  keener  edge  to  the  pain  of  sepa- 
ration. 

Pain !  Life  seemed  made  up  of  pain  these  days.  Some- 
times she  wondered  how  much  a  single  human  being  was 
capable  of  bearing. 

It  was  months — an  eternity — since  she  and  Max  had 
parted,  and  still  her  heart  cried  out  for  him,  fighting  the 
bitter  anger  and  distrust  that  had  driven  her  from  him. 

She  felt  she  could  have  borne  it  more  easily  had  he  died. 
Then  the  remembrance  of  his  love  would  still  have  been  hers 
to  hold  and  keep,  something  most  precious  and  unspoilt 
But  now,  each  memory  of  their  life  together  was  tarnished 
with  doubt  and  suspicion  and  mistrust.  She  had  put  him 
to  the  test,  bade  him  choose  betwixt  her  and  Adrienne,  claim- 
ing his  confidence  as  her  right — and  he  had  chosen  Adri- 
enne and  declined  to  trust  her  with  his  secret. 

She  told  herself  that  had  he  loved  her,  he  must  have 
yielded.  No  man  who  cared  could  have  refused  her,  and  the 
scourge  of  wounded  pride  drove  her  into  that  outer  dark- 
ness where  bitterness  and  "proper  self-respect"  defile  the 
face  of  Love. 

She  had  turned  desperately  to  her  work  for  distrac- 
tion from  the  ceaseless  torture  of  her  thoughts,  but  not  all 
the  work  in  the  world  had  been  able  to  silence  the  cry  of  her 
heart 


242  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

For  work  can  do  no  more  than  fill  the  day,  and  though 
Diana  feverishly  crammed  each  day  so  full  that  there  was 
little  time  to  think  and  remember,  the  nights  remained — 
the  interminable  nights,  when  she  was  alone  with  her  own 
soul,  and  when  the  memories  which  the  day's  work  had 
beaten  back  came  pressing  in  upon  her. 

Oh,  God !  The  nights — the  endless,  intolerable  nights !  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  VISION  OF  LOVE 

A  WEEK  after  her  visit  to  Somervell  Street,  the  thing 
which  Diana  had  dreaded  came  to  pass. 

She  was  attending  a  reception  at  the  French  Embassy, 
and  as  she  made  her  way  through  the  crowded  rooms,  fol- 
lowed by  Olga  Lermontof— who  frequently  added  to  the  du- 
ties of  accompanist  those  of  dame  de  compagnie  to  the  great 
prima  donna — she  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  Max. 

To  many  of  us  the  anticipation  of  an  unpleasant  happen- 
ing is  far  more  agonising  than  the  actual  thing  itself.  The 
mind,  brooding  apprehensively  upon  what  may  conceivably 
occur,  exaggerates  the  possibilities  of  the  situation,  en- 
hancing all  the  disagreeable  details,  and  oblivious  of  any 
mitigating  circumstances  which  may,  quite  probably,  accom- 
pany it.  There  is  sound  sense  and  infinite  comfort,  if  you 
look  for  it,  in  the  old  saying  which  bids  us  not  to  cross  our 
bridges  till  we  come  to  them. 

The  fear  of  the  unknown,  the  unexperienced,  is  a  more 
haunting,  insidious  fear  than  any  other,  and  sometimes  one 
positively  longs  to  hasten  the  advent  of  an  unwelcome  or- 
deal, in  order  that  the  worst  may  be  known  and  the  menace 
of  the  future  be  transformed  into  a  memory  of  the  past 

So  it  was  with  Diana.  She  had  been  for  so  long  beset 
by  her  fear  of  the  first  meeting  that  she  experienced  a  sen- 
sation almost  of  relief  when  her  eyes  fell  at  last  upon  the 
tall  figure  of  her  husband. 

He  was  deep  in  conversation  with  the  French  Ambassador 
at  the  moment,  but  as  Diana  approached  it  was  as  though 
some  sensitive,  invisible  live  wire  had  vibrated,  apprising 

243 


THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

him  of  her  nearness,  and  he  looked  up  suddenly,  his  blue 
eyes  gazing  straight  into  hers. 

To  Diana,  the  brief  encounter  proved  amazingly  simple 
and  easy  in  contrast  with  the  shrinking  apprehensions  she 
had  formed.  A  slight  bow  from  her,  its  grave  return  from 
him,  and  the  dreaded  moment  was  past. 

It  was  only  afterwards  that  she  realised,  with  a  sense  of 
sick  dismay,  how  terribly  he  had  altered.  She  caught  at 
the  accompanist's  arm  with  nervous  force. 

"Olga !"  she  whispered.     "Did  you  see  ?" 

The  Russian's  expression  answered  her.  Her  face  wore 
a  curious  stunned  look,  and  her  mouth  twitched  as  she  tried 
to  control  the  sudden  trembling  of  her  lips. 

"Come  outside — on  to  this  balcony."  Olga  spoke  with 
a  fierce  imperativeness  as  she  saw  Diana  sway  uncertainly 
and  her  face  whiten. 

Once  outside  in  the  cool  shelter  of  the  balcony,  dimly  lit 
by  swaying  Chinese  lanterns,  Diana  sank  into  a  chair,  shaken 
and  unnerved.  For  an  instant  her  eyes  strayed  back  to 
where,  through  the  open  French  window,  she  could  see  Max 
still  conversing  with  the  Ambassador,  but  she  averted  them 
swiftly. 

The  change  in  him  hurt  her  like  the  sudden  stab  of  a 
knife.  His  face  was  worn  and  lined ;  there  was  something 
ascetic-looking  in  the  hollowed  line  from  cheek-bone  to  chin 
and  in  the  stern,  austere  closing  of  the  lips,  while  the  eyes 
— the  mocking  blue  eyes  with  the  laughter  always  lurking 
at  the  back  of  them — held  an  expression  of  deep,  unalter- 
able sadness. 

"Olga!"  The  word  broke  from  Diana's  white  lips  like 
a  cry  of  appeal,  tremulous  and  uncertain. 

But  Miss  Lermontof  made  no  response.  She  seemed 
quite  unmoved  by  the  distress  of  the  woman  sitting  huddled 
in  the  chair  before  her,  and  her  light  green  eyes  shone  with 
a  curious  savage  glint  like  the  eyes  of  a  cat. 

Diana  spoke  again  nervously. 


THE  VISION  OF  LOVE  245 

"Are  you — angry  with  me  ?" 

"Angry !"  The  Russian  almost  spat  out  the  word.  "An- 
gry !  Don't  you  see  what  you're  doing  ?" 

"What  I'm  doing?"  repeated  Diana.  "What  am  I  do- 
ing?" 

Olga  replied  with  a  grim  incisiveness, 

"You're  killing  Max — that's  all.  This — this  is  going  to 
break  him — break  him  utterly." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  the  dewy  dusk  of  the  night, 
shaken  into  pearly  mist  where  the  flickering  light  of  the 
Chinese  lanterns  illumined  it,  seemed  to  close  round  the  two 
women  like  a  filmy  curtain,  shutting  them  off  from  the  chat- 
tering throng  in  the  adjoining  room. 

Presently  a  cart  rattled  past  in  the  street  below,  rasping 
the  tense  silence. 

Diana  lifted  her  head. 

"I  didn't  know!"  she  said  helplessly.  "I  didn't 
know!  .  .  ." 

"And  yet  you  professed  to  love  him!"  Olga  spoke  con- 
sideringly, an  element  of  contemptuous  wonder  in  her  voice. 

The  memory  of  words  that  Max  had  uttered  long  ago 
stirred  in  Diana's  mind. 

"You  don't  know  wluit  love  means!" 

Limned  against  the  darkness  she  could  see  once  more  the 
sun-warmed  beach  at  Culver  Point,  the  blue,  sparkling  sea 
with  the  white  gulls  wheeling  above  it,  and  Max — Max 
standing  tall  and  straight  beside  her,  with  a  shaft  of  sun- 
light flickering  across  his  hair,  and  love  illimitable  in  his 
eyes. 

"You  don't  know  what  love  means!" 

The  words  penetrated  to  her  innermost  consciousness, 
cleaving  their  way  sheer  through  the  fog  of  doubt  and  mis- 
trust and  pride  as  the  sharp  blade  of  the  surgeon's  knife 
cuts  deep  into  a  festering  wound.  And  before  their  clari- 
fying, essential  truth,  Diana's  soul  recoiled  in  dumb  dismay. 

No,  she  hadn't  known  what  love  meant — love,  which,  with 


246  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

an  exquisite  unreasonableness,  believes  when  there  is  ground 
for  doubt — hadn't  understood  it  as  even  this  cynical,  bitter- 
tongued  Russian  understood  it.  And  she  recognised  the 
scorn  on  Olga's  white,  contemptuous  face  as  the  unlovely 
sheath  of  an  ideal  of  love  immeasurably  beyond  her  own 
achieving. 

The  vision  of  Culver  Point  faded  away,  and  an  impalpable 
wall  of  darkness  seemed  to  close  about  her.  Dimly,  as 
though  it  were  some  one  else's  voice  speaking,  she  heard  her- 
self say  slowly: — 

"I  thought  I  loved  him."  Then,  after  a  pause,  "Will 
you  go?  Please  go.  I  should  like  to  be  ...  quiet  .  .  . 
a  little  while." 

For  a  moment  Olga  gazed  down  at  her,  eagerly,  almost 
hungrily,  as  though  silently  beseeching  her.  Then,  still  si- 
lently, she  went  away. 

Diana  sat  very  still.  Above  her,  the  gay-coloured  Chi- 
nese lanterns  swayed  to  and  fro  in  the  little  breeze  that 
drifted  up  the  street,  and  above  again,  far  off  in  the  sombre 
sky,  the  stars  looked  down — pitiless,  unmoved,  as  they  have 
looked  down  through  all  the  ages  upon  the  pigmy  joys  and 
sufferings  of  humanity. 

For  the  first  time  Diana  was  awake  to  the  limitations  she 
had  set  to  love. 

The  meeting  with  her  husband  had  shaken  her  to  the 
very  foundations  of  her  being,  the  shock  of  his  changed  ap- 
pearance sweeping  away  at  a  single  blow  the  whole  fabric 
of  artificial  happiness  that  she  had  been  trying  to  build  up. 

She  had  thought  that  the  wound  in  her  heart  would  heal, 
that  she  could  teach  herself  to  forget  the  past.  And  lo! 
At  the  first  sight  of  his  face  the  old  love  and  longing  had  re- 
awakened with  a  strength  she  was  powerless  to  withstand. 

The  old  love,  but  changed  into  something  immeasurably 
more  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  and  holding  in  its  depths 
a  finer  understanding.  And  with  this  clearer  vision  came 
a  sudden  new  knowledge — a  knowledge  fraught  with  pain 


THE  VISION  OF  LOVE  247 

and  yet  bearing  deep  within  it  an  unutterable  sense  of  joy. 

Max  had  cared  all  the  time — cared  still !  It  was  written 
in  the  lines  of  suffering  on  his  face,  in  the  quiet  endurance 
of  the  close-shut  mouth.  Despite  the  bitter,  pitiful  misun- 
derstandings of  their  married  life,  despite  his  inexplicable 
friendship  for  Adrienne,  despite  all  that  had  gone  before, 
Diana  was  sure,  in  the  light  of  this  larger  understanding 
which  had  come  to  her,  that  through  it  all  he  had  loved  her. 
With  an  absolute  certainty  of  conviction,  she  knew  that  it 
was  her  hand  which  had  graved  those  fresh  lines  about 
his  mouth,  brought  that  look  of  calm  sadness  to  his  eyes, 
and  the  realisation  held  a  strange  mingling  of  exquisite 
joy  and  keen  anguish. 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  hid  it  from  the  stars  and 
the  shrouding  dark,  tremulously  abashed  at  the  wonderful 
significance  of  love. 

She  almost  laughed  to  think  how  she  had  allowed  so  small 
a  thing  as  the  secret  which  Max  could  not  tell  her  to  corrode 
and.  eat  into  the  heart  of  happiness.  Looking  back  from 
the  standpoint  she  had  now  gained,  it  seemed  so  pitifully 
mean  and  paltry,  a  profanation  of  the  whole  inner,  hidden 
meaning  of  love. 

So  long  as  she  and  Max  cared  for  each  other,  nothing 
else  mattered,  nothing  in  the  whole  world.  And  the  long 
battle  between  love  and  pride — between  love,  that  had 
turned  her  days  and  nights  into  one  endless  ache  of  longing 
to  return  to  Max,  and  pride,  that  had  barred  the  way  inflex- 
ibly— was  over,  done  with. 

Love  had  won,  hands  down.  She  would  go  back  to  Max, 
and  all  thought  that  it  might  be  weak-minded  of  her,  hu- 
miliating to  her  self-respect,  was  swept  aside.  Love,  the 
great  teacher,  had  brought  her  through  the  dark  places  where 
the  lesser  gods  hold  sway,  out  into  the  light  of  day,  and  she 
knew  that  to  return  to  Max,  to  give  herself  afresh  to  him, 
would  be  the  veritable  triumph  of  love  itself. 

She  would  go  back,  back  to  the  shelter  of  his  love  which 


246  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

had  been  waiting  for  her  all  the  time,  unswerving  and  un- 
reproaching.  She  had  read  it  in  his  eyes  when  they  had 
met  her  own  an  hour  ago. 

"I  want  you — body  and  soul  I  want  you!"  he  had  told 
her  there  by  the  cliffs  at  Culver. 

And  she  had  not  given  him  all  her  soul.  She  had  kept 
back  that  supreme  belief  in  the  beloved  which  is  an  inte- 
gral part  of  love.  But  now,  now  she  would  go  to  him  and 
give  with  both  hands  royally — faith  and  trust,  blindly,  as 
love  demanded. 

She  smiled  a  little.  Happiness  and  the  haven  of  Max's 
anna  seemed  very  near  her  just  then. 

She  was  very  silent  as  she  and  Olga  Lermontof  drove 
home  together  from  the  Embassy,  but  just  at  the  last,  when 
the  limousine  stopped  at  Baroni's  house,  she  leaned  closer 
to  Olga  in  the  semi-darkness,  and  whispered  a  little  breath- 


"I'm  going  back  to  him,  Olga." 

Somehow  the  mere  putting  of  it  into  words  seemed  to 
give  it  substance,  convert  it  into  an  actual  fact  that  could 
be  talked  about,  just  like  the  weather,  or  one's  favourite 
play,  or  any  other  commonplace  matter  which  can  be  spoken 
of  because  it  has  a  knowledgeable  existence.  And  the  Rus- 
sian's quick  "Thank  God !"  set  the  seal  of  assuredness  upon  it. 

"Yes — thank  God,"  answered  Diana  simply. 

The  car,  which  was  to  take  the  accompanist  on  to  Brut- 
ton  Square,  slipped  away  down  the  lamp-lit  street,  and 
Diana  fled  upstairs  to  her  room. 

She  must  be  alone — alone  with  her  thoughts.  She  no 
longer  dreaded  the  night  and  its  quiet  solitude.  It  was  a 
solitude  pervaded  by  a  deep,  abiding  peace,  the  anteroom 
of  happiness. 

To-morrow  she  would  go  to  Max,  and  tell  him  that  love 
had  taught  her  belief  and  faith — all  that  he  had  asked  of 
her  and  that  she  had  so  failed  to  give. 


THE  VISION  OF  LOVE  249 

She  lay  long  awake,  gazing  into  the  dark,  dreamily  con- 
scious of  utter  peace  and  calm.  To-morrow  .  .  .  to-mor- 
row. .  .  .  Presently  her  eyes  closed  and  she  slept.  Once 
she  stirred  and  smiled  a  little  in  her  sleep,  while  the  word 
"Max"  fluttered  from  between  her  lips,  almost  as  though 
it  had  been  a  prayer. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

BREAKING-POINT 

WHEN  Diana  woke  the  following  morning  it  was  to  a 
drowsy  sense  of  utter  peace  and  content.  She  won- 
dered vaguely  what  had  given  rise  to  it.  Usually,  when 
she  came  back  to  the  waking  world,  it  was  with  a  shrinking 
almost  akin  to  terror  that  a  new  day  had  begun  and  must 
be  lived  through — twelve  empty,  meaningless  hours  of  it. 

As  full  consciousness  returned,  the  remembrance  of  yes- 
terday's meeting  with  Max,  and  of  all  that  had  succeeded 
it,  flashed  into  her  mind  like  a  sudden  ray  of  sunlight,  and 
she  realised  that  what  had  tinged  her  thoughts  with  rose- 
colour  was  the  quiet  happiness,  bred  of  her  determination 
to  return  to  her  hueband,  which  had  lain  stored  at  the  back 
of  her  brain  during  the  hours  of  unconsciousness. 

She  sat  up  in  bed,  vividly,  joyously  awake,  just  as  her 
maid  came  in  with  her  breakfast  tray. 

"Make  haste,  Milling,"  she  exclaimed,  a  thrill  of  eager 
excitement  in  her  voice.  "It's  a  lovely  morning,  and  there's 
so  much  going  to  happen  to-day  that  I  can't  waste  any  time 
over  breakfast." 

It  was  the  old,  impetuous  Diana  who  spoke,  impulsively 
carried  away  by  the  emotion  of  the  moment. 

"Is  there,  madam?"  Milling,  arranging  the  breakfast 
things  on  a  little  table  beside  the  bed,  regarded  her  mistress 
affectionately.  It  was  long,  very  long,  since  she  had  seen 
her  with  that  look  of  happy  anticipation  in  her  face — never 
since  the  good  days  at  Lilac  Lodge,  before  she  had  quar- 
relled so  irrevocably  with  her  husband — and  the  maid  won- 
dered whether  it  foretokened  a  reconciliation.  "Is  there, 
madam  ?  Then  I'm  glad  it's  a  fine  day.  It's  a  good  omen." 

250 


BREAKING-POINT  251 

Diana  smiled  at  her. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated  contentedly.     "It's  a  good  omen." 

Milling  paused  on  her  way  out  of  the  room. 

"If  you  please,  madam,  Signor  Baroni  would  like  to 
know  at  what  time  you  will  be  ready  to  rehearse  your  songs 
for  to-night,  so  that  he  can  telephone  through  to  Miss  Ler- 
montof." 

To  rehearse!  Diana's  face  clouded  suddenly.  She  had 
entirely  forgotten  that  she  had  promised  to  give  her  serv- 
ices that  night  at  a  reception,  organised  in  aid  of  some  char- 
ity by  the  Duchess  of  Linfield — the  shrewish  old  woman 
who  had  paid  Diana  her  first  tribute  of  tears — and  the 
recollection  of  it  sounded  the  knell  to  her  hopes  of  seeing 
Max  that  day.  The  morning  must  perforce  be  devoted  to 
practising,  the  afternoon  to  the  necessary  rest  which  Baroni 
insisted  upon,  and  after  that  there  would  be  only  time  to 
dress  and  partake  of  a  light  meal  before  she  drove  to  the 
Duchess's  house. 

It  would  not  be  possible  to  see  Max!  Even  had  there 
been  time  she  dared  not  risk  the  probable  consequences  to 
her  voice  which  the  strain  and  emotion  of  such  an  interview 
must  necessarily  carry  in  their  train. 

For  a  moment  she  felt  tempted  to  break  her  engagement, 
to  throw  it  over  at  the  last  instant  and  telephone  to  the 
Duchess  to  find  a  substitute.  And  then  her  sense  of  duty 
to  her  public — to  the  big,  warm-hearted  public  who  had  al- 
ways welcomed  and  supported  her — pushed  itself  to  the  fore, 
forbidding  her  to  take  this  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 

How  could  she,  who  had  never  yet  broken  a  contract  when 
her  appearance  involved  a  big  fee,  fail  now,  on  an  occa- 
sion when  she  had  consented  to  give  her  services,  and  when 
it  was  her  name  alone  on  the  programme  which  had 
charmed  so  much  money  from  the  pockets  of  the  wealthy, 
that  not  a  single  seat  of  all  that  could  be  crowded  into  the 
Duchess's  rooms  remained  unsold  ?  Oh,  it  was  impossible ! 

Had  it  meant  the  renouncing  of  the  biggest  fee  ever  of- 
fered her,  Diana  would  have  impetuously  sacrificed  it  and 


252  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

flung  her  patrons  overboard.  But  it  meant  something  more 
than  that  It  was  a  debt  of  honour,  her  professional  honour. 

After  all,  the  fulfilment  of  her  promise  to  aing  would 
only  mean  setting  her  own  affairs  aside  for  twenty-four 
hours,  and  somehow  she  felt  that  Max  would  understand 
and  approve.  He  would  never  wish  to  snatch  a  few  earlier 
hours  of  happiness  if  they  must  needs  be  purchased  at  the 
price  of  a  broken  promise.  But  her  heart  sank  as  she  faced 
the  only  alternative. 

She  turned  to  Milling,  the  happy  exultation  that  had  lit 
her  eyes  suddenly  quenched. 

"Ask  the  Maestro  kindly  to  'phone  Miss  Lermontof  that 
I  shall  be  ready  at  eleven,"  she  said  quietly. 

In  some  curious  way  this  unlooked-for  upset  to  her  plans 
seemed  to  have  cast  a  shadow  across  her  path.  The  warm 
surety  of  coming  happiness  which  had  lapped  her  round 
receded,  and  a  vague,  indefinable  apprehension  invaded  her 
consciousness.  It  was  as  though  she  sensed  something  sin- 
ister that  lay  in  wait  for  her  round  the  next  corner,  and 
all  her  efforts  to  recapture  the  radiant  exultation  of  her 
mood  of  yestereve,  to  shake  off  the  nervous  dread  that  had 
laid  hold  of  her,  failed  miserably. 

Her  breakfast  was  standing  untouched  on  the  table  be- 
side her  bed.  She  regarded  it  distastefully.  Then,  re- 
calling with  a  wry  smile  Baroni's  dictum  that  "good 
food,  and  plenty  of  good  food,  means  voice,"  she  reluc- 
tantly began  to  eat,  idly  turning  over  the  while  the  pages  of 
one  of  the  newspapers  which  Milling  had  placed  beside 
the  breakfast  tray.  It  was  an  illustrated  weekly,  and  num- 
bered amongst  its  staff  an  enterprising  young  journalist, 
possessed  of  an  absolute  genius  for  nosing  out  such  mat- 
ters as  the  principal  people  concerned  in  them  particularly 
desired  kept  secret.  These  the  enterprising  young  journal- 
ist's paper  served  up  piping-hot  in  their  Tattle  of  the  Town 
column — a  column  denounced  by  the  pilloried  few  and  de- 
voured with  eager  interest  by  the  rest  of  the  world. 

Diana,  sipping  her  coffee,  turned  to  it  half-heartedly,  hop- 


BREAKING-POINT  »53 

ing  to  find  some  odd  bit  of  news  that  might  serve  to  dis-» 
tract  her  thoughts. 

There  were  the  usual  sly  hits  at  several  well-known  soci- 
ety women  whose  public  charities  covered  a  multitude  of 
private  sins,  followed  by  a  very  inadequately  veiled  refer' 
ence  to  the  chief  actors  in  a  recent  divorce  case,  and  then — • 

Diana's  eyes  glued  themselves  to  the  printed  page  before 
her.  Very  deliberately  she  set  down  her  cup  on  the  tray 
beside  her,  and  taking  up  the  paper  again,  re-read  the  para- 
graph which  had  so  suddenly  riveted  her  attention.  It  raij 
as  follows: — 

"Is  it  true  that  the  nom  de  plume  of  a  dramatist,  well- 
known  in  London  circles,  masks  the  identity  of  the  son  of 
a  certain  romantic  royal  duke  who  contracted  a  morganatic 
marriage  with  one  of  the  most  beautiful  Englishwomen 
of  the  seventies  ? 

"It  would  be  curious  if  there  proved  to  be  a  connecting 
link  between  this  whisper  and  the  recent  disappearance 
from  the  stage  of  the  popular  actress  who  has  been  so  closely 
associated  with  the  plays  emanating  from  the  gifted  pen 
of  that  same  dramatist. 

"Interested  readers  should  carefully  watch  forthcoming 
events  in  the  little  state  of  Ruvania," 

Diana  stared  at  the  newspaper  incredulously,  and  a  half- 
stifled  exclamation  broke  from  her. 

There  was — there  could  be — no  possible  doubt  to  whom 
the  paragraph  bore  referenca  "A  well-known  dramatist 
and  the  popular  actress  so  closely  associated  with  his  works" 
— why,  to  any  one  with  the  most  superficial  knowledge  of 
plays  and  players  of  the  moment,  it  was  as  obvious  as  though 
the  names  had  been  written  in  capitals. 

Max  and  Adrienne !  Their  identities  linked  together  and 
woven  into  a  fresh  tissue  of  mystery  and  innuendo ! 

Diana  smiled  a  little  at  the  suggestion  that  Max  might 
be  the  son  of  a  royal  duke.  It  was  so  very  far-fetched — 
fantastic  in  the  extreme. 


'254  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

And  then,  all  at  once,  she  remembered  Olga's  significant 
query  of  long  ago:  "Have  you  ever  asked  him  who  he  is?" 
and  Max's  stern  refusal  to  answer  the  question  when  she 
had  put  it  to  him. 

At  the  time  it  had  only  given  an  additional  twist  to  the 
threads  of  the  intolerable  web  of  mystery  which  had  en- 
meshed her  married  life.  But  now  it  suddenly  blazed  out 
like  a  beacon  illumining  the  dark  places.  Supposing  it 
were  true — supposing  Max  had  been  masquerading  under 
another  name  all  the  time — then  this  suggestive  little  para- 
graph contained  a  clue  from  which  she  might  perhaps  un- 
ravel the  whole  hateful  mystery. 

Her  brows  drew  together  as  she  puzzled  over  the  mat- 
ter. This  history  of  a  morganatic  marriage — it  held  a 
faint  ring  of  familiarity.  Vaguely  she  recollected  having 
heard  the  story  of  some  royal  duke  who  had  married  an  Eng- 
lishwoman many  years  ago. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  racked  her  brain,  unable  to  place 
the  incident.  Then,  her  eyes  falling  absently  upon  the 
newspaper  once  more,  the  last  word  of  the  paragraph  sud- 
denly unlocked  the  rusty  door  of  memory. 

Ruvania!  She  remembered  the  story  now!  There  had 
once  been  a  younger  brother  and  heir  of  a  reigning  grand- 
duke  of  Ruvania  who  had  fallen  so  headlong  in  love  with 
a  beautiful  Englishwoman  that  he  had  renounced  his  royal 
state  and  his  claims  to  the  grand  ducal  throne,  and  had 
married  the  lady  of  his  choice,  thereafter  living  the  life  of 
a  simple  country  gentleman. 

The  affair  had  taken  place  a  good  many  years  prior  to 
Diana's  entry  into  life,  but  at  the  time  it  had  made  such  a 
romantic  appeal  to  the  sentimental  heart  of  the  world  at 
large  that  it  had  never  been  quite  forgotten,  and  had  been 
retold  in  Diana's  hearing  on  more  than  one  occasion. 

Indeed,  she  recollected  having  once  seen  a  newspaper 
containing  an  early  portrait  of  a  family  group  composed  of 
Duke  Boris  and  his  morganatic  wife  and  children.  There 
had  been  two  of  the  latter,  a  boy  and  a  girl,  and  Diana 


BREAKING-POINT  255 

suddenly  realised,  with  an  irrepressible  little  flutter  of  ten- 
der excitement,  that  if  the  fantastic  story  hinted  at  in  Tat- 
tle of  the  Town  were  true,  then  the  boy  whom,  years  ago,  she 
had  seen  pictured  in  the  photograph  must  have  been  ac- 
tually Max  himself. 

And — again  if  it  were  true — how  naturally  and  easily 
it  explained  that  little  unconscious  air  of  hauteur  and  au- 
thority that  she  had  so  often  observed  in  him — the  "lordly" 
air  upon  which  she  had  laughingly  remarked  to  Fobs,  when 
describing  the  man  who  had  been  her  companion  on  that 
memorable  railway  journey,  when  death  had  drawn  very 
near  them  both  and  then  had  passed  them  by. 

Her  thoughts  raced  onward,  envisaging  the  possibilities 
involved. 

There  were  no  dukes  of  Ruvania  now;  that  she  knew. 
The  little  State,  close  on  the  borders  of  Russia,  had  been 
— like  so  many  of  the  smaller  Eastern  States — convulsed  by 
a  revolution  some  ten  years  ago,  and  since  then  had  been 
governed  by  a  republic. 

Was  the  explanation  of  all  that  had  so  mystified  her  to 
be  found  in  the  fact  that  Max  was  a  political  exile  ? 

The  Tattle  of  the  Town  paragraph  practically  suggested 
that  the  affairs  of  the  "well-known  dramatist"  were  in  some 
way  bound  up  with  the  destiny  of  Ruvania,  That  was  in- 
dicated plainly  enough  in  the  reference  to  "forthcoming 
events." 

Diana's  head  whirled  with  the  throng  of  confused  ideas 
that  poured  in  upon  her. 

And  Adrienne  de  Gervais?  What  part  did  she  play  in 
this  strange  medley  ?  Tattle  of  the  Town  assigned  her  one. 
Max  and  Adrienne  and  Ruvania  were  all  inextricably  tan- 
gled up  together  in  the  thought-provoking  paragraph. 

Suddenly,  Diana's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  as  a  possible 
explanation  of  the  whole  matter  sprang  into  her  mind. 
There  had  been  two  children  of  the  morganatic  marriage, 
a  son  and  a  daughter.  Was  it  conceivable  that  Adrienne 
de  Gervais  was  the  daughter? 


256  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Adrienne,  Max's  sister !  That  would  account  for  his  in- 
explicably close  friendship  with  her,  his  devotion  to  her 
welfare,  and — if  she,  like  himself,  were  exiled — the  secrecy 
which  he  had  maintained. 

Slowly  the  conviction  that  this  was  the  true  explanation 
of  all  that  had  caused  her  such  bitter  heartburning  in  the 
unhappy  past  grew  and  deepened  in  Diana's  mind.  A  chill 
feeling  of  dismay  crept  about  her  heart.  If  it  were  true, 
then  how  hideously — how  unforgivably — she  had  misjudged 
her  husband! 

She  drew  a  sharp,  agonised  breath,  her  shaking  fingers 
gripping  the  bedclothes  like  a  frightened  child's. 

"Oh,  not  that !  Don't  let  it  be  that !"  she  whispered  pite- 
ously. 

She  looked  round  the  room  with  scared  eyes.  Who  could 
help  her — tell  her  the  truth — set  at  rest  this  new  fear  which 
had  assailed  her  ?  There  must  be  some  one  .  .  .  some  one. 
.  .  .  Yes,  there  was  Olga!  She  knew — had  known  Max's 
secret  all  along.  But  would  she  speak  ?  Would  she  reveal 
the  truth  ?  Something — heaven  knew  what ! — had  kept  her 
silent  hitherto,  save  for  the  utterance  of  those  maddening 
taunts  and  innuendoes  which  had  so  often  lodged  in  Diana's 
heart  and  festered  there. 

Feverishly  Diana  sprang  out  of  bed  and  began  to  dress, 
flinging  on  her  clothes  in  a  very  frenzy  of  haste.  She  would 
see  Olga,  and  beg,  pray,  beseech  her,  if  necessary,  to  tell 
her  all  she  knew. 

If  she  failed,  if  the  Russian  woman  obstinately  denied 
her,  she  would  know  no  peace  of  mind — no  rest.  She  felt 
she  had  reached  breaking-point — she  could  endure  no  more. 

But  she  would  not  fail.  When  Olga  came — and  she 
would  be  here  soon,  very  soon  now — she  would  play  up  the 
knowledge  she  had  gleaned  from  the  newspaper  for  all  it 
was  worth,  and  she  would  force  the  truth  from  her,  willing 
or  unwilling. 

Whether  that  truth  spelt  heaven,  or  the  utter,  final  wreck- 
ing of  all  her  life,  she  must  know  it 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

• 

THE    REAPING 

HALF  an  hour  later  Diana  descended  to  the  big  music- 
room,  where  she  usually  rehearsed,  to  find  Olga  Ler- 
montof  already  awaiting  her  there. 

By  a  sheer  effort  of  will  she  had  fought  down  the  storm 
of  emotion  which  had  threatened  to  overwhelm  her,  and 
now,  as  she  greeted  her  accompanist,  she  was  quite  cool 
and  composed,  though  rather  pale  and  with  tired  shadows 
beneath  her  eyes. 

There  was  something  almost  unnatural  in  her  calm,  and 
the  shrewd  Russian  eyed  her  with  a  sudden  apprehension. 
This  was  not  the  same  woman  whom  she  had  left  last  night, 
thrilling  and  softly  tremulous  with  love. 

She  began  speaking  quickly,  an  undercurrent  of  sup- 
pressed excitement  in  her  tones. 

"There's  some  mistake,  isn't  there?  You  don't  want  me 
— this  morning?" 

Diana  regarded  her  composedly. 

"Certainly  I  want  you — to  rehearse  for  to-night." 

"To  rehearse  ?  Rehearse  ?"  Olga's  voice  rose  in  a  sharp 
crescendo  of  amazement.  "Surely" — bending  forward  to 
peer  into  Diana's  face — "surely  you  are  not  going  to  keep 
Max  waiting  while  you — rehearse?" 

"It's  impossible  for  us  to  meet  to-day,"  replied  Diana 
steadily.  "I  had — forgotten — the  Duchess's  reception." 

Olga  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"But  you  must  meet  to-day,"  she  said  imperiously.  "You 
must!  To-morrow  it  will  be  too  late." 

"Too  late  ?     How  too  late  ?" 

257 


258  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Miss  Lermontof  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  she  said 
quietly : — 

"I  happen  to  know  that  Max  is  leaving  England  to- 
night." 

Diana  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Well,  he  will  come  back,  I  suppose." 

The  other  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"Diana,  what  has  come  to  you?  You  are  so — changed 
— since  last  night." 

"We're  told  that  'night  unto  night  showeth  knowledge,' ' 
retorted  Diana  bitterly.     "Perhaps  my  knowledge  has  in- 
creased since — last  night."     She  watched  the  puzzled  ex- 
pression deepen  on  Olga's  face.     Then  she  added:     "So  I 
can  afford  to  wait  a  little  longer  to  see  Max." 

Again  Miss  Lermontof  hesitated.  Then,  as  though  im- 
pelled to  speak  despite  her  better  judgment,  she  burst  out 
impetuously : — 

"But  you  can't !  You  can't  wait.  He  isn't  coming  back 
again." 

There  was  a  queer  tense  note  in  Diana's  voice  as  she 
played  her  first  big  card. 

"Then  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  follow  him  to — Ruvania," 
she  said  very  quietly. 

"To  Ruvania?"  Olga  repeated,  and  by  the  sudden  nar- 
rowing of  her  eyes,  as  though  she  were  all  at  once  "on 
guard,"  Diana  knew  that  her  shot  in  the  dark  had  gone 
home.  "What  do  you  mean?  Why — Ruvania?" 

Diana  faced  her  squarely.  Despite  her  feverish  desire  to 
wring  the  truth  from  the  other  woman,  she  had  herself  well 
in  hand,  and  when  she  spoke  it  was  with  a  certain  dignity. 

"Don't  you  think  that  the  time  for  pretence  and  hypocrisy 
has  gone  by  ?  You  know — all  that  I  ought  to  know.  Now 
that  even  the  newspapers  are  aware  of  Max's — and  Adri- 
enne's — connection  with  Ruvania,  do  you  still  think  it  nec- 
essary that  I,  his  wife,  should  be  kept  in  the  dark?" 

"The  newspapers  ?"     Olga  spoke  with  sudden  excitement. 


THE  REAPING  259 

"How  much  do  they  know  ?  What  do  they  say  ?  .  .  .  After 
all,  though,"  she  added  more  quietly,  "it  doesn't  much  mat- 
ter— now.  Everything  is  settled — for  good  or  ill.  But  if 
the  papers  had  got  hold  of  it  sooner " 

"Well  ?"  queried  Diana  coolly,  intent  on  driving  her  into 
giving  up  her  knowledge.  "What  if  they  had?" 

Olga  surveyed  her  ironically. 

"What  if  they  had?  Only  that,  if  they  had,  probably 
you  wouldn't  have  possessed  a  husband  a  few  hours  later. 
A  knife  in  the  back  is  a  quick  road  out  of  life,  you  know." 

Diana  caught  her  breath,  and  her  self-command  gave  way 
suddenly. 

"For  God's  sake,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Tell  me — you  must 
tell  me — everything,  everything !  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer. 

I  know  too  much "  She  broke  off  with  a  dry,  choking 

sob. 

Olga's  face  softened. 

"You  poor  child !"  she  muttered  to  herself.  Then,  aloud, 
she  said  gently:  "Tell  me — how  much  do  you  know?" 

With  an  effort  Diana  mastered  herself  again. 

"I  know  Max's  parentage,"  she  began  steadily. 

"You  know  that?" — with  quick  surprise. 

"Yes.     And  that  he  has  a  sister." 

Olga  nodded,  smiling  rather  oddly. 

"Yes.     He  has  a  sister,"  she  admitted. 

"And  that  he  is  involved  in  Ruvanian  politics.  Some- 
thing is  going  to  happen  there,  in  Ruvania " 

"Yes  to  that  also.  Something  is  going  to  happen  there. 
The  republic  is  down  and  out,  and  the  last  of  the  Mazaroffs 
is  going  to  receive  back  the  ducal  crown."  There  was  a 
tinge  of  mockery  in  Miss  Lermontof's  curt  tones. 

Diana  gave  a  cry  of  dismay. 

"Not — not  Max  ?"  she  stammered.  All  at  once,  he  seemed 
to  have  receded  very  far  away  from  her,  to  have  been 
snatched  into  a  world  whither  she  would  never  be  able  to 
follow  him. 


260  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"Max?"  Olga's  face  darkened.  "No — not  Max,  but 
Nadine  Mazaroff." 

"Nadine  Mazaroff?"  repeated  Diana  uncomprehendingly. 
"Who  is  Nadine  Mazaroff  ?" 

"She  is  the  woman  you  knew  as  Adrienne  de  Gervais." 

"Adrienne?  Is  that  her  name — Nadine  Mazaroff? 
Then — then" — Diana's  breath  came  unevenly — "she's  not 
Max's  sister?" 

"No" — shortly.  "She  is — or  will  be  within  a  week — the 
Grand  Duchess  of  Ruvania." 

"Go  on,"  urged  Diana,  as  the  other  paused.  "Go  on. 
Tell  me  everything.  I  know  so  much  already  that  it  can't 
be  breaking  faith  with  any  one  for  you  to  tell  me  the  whole 
truth  now." 

Olga  looked  at  her  consideringly. 

"No.  I  suppose,  since  the  journalists  have  ferreted  it 
out,  it  won't  be  a  secret  much  longer,"  she  conceded  grimly. 
"And,  in  any  case,  it  doesn't  matter  now.  It's  all  settled." 
She  sighed.  "Besides" — with  a  faint  smile — "if  I  tell 
you,  it  will  save  Max  a  long  story  when  you  meet." 

"Yes,"  replied  Diana,  an  odd  expression  flitting  across 
her  face.  "It  will  save  Max  a  long  story — when  we  meet. 
Tell  me,"  she  continued,  with  an  effort,  "tell  me  about — 
Nadine  Mazaroff." 

"Nadine?"  cried  Olga,  with  sudden  violence.  "Nadine 
Mazaroff  is  the  woman  I  hate  more  than  any  other  on  this 
earth!"  Her  eyes  gleamed  malevolently.  "She  stands 
where  Max  should  stand.  If  it  were  not  for  her  the  Ru- 
vanian  people  would  have  accepted  him  as  their  ruler — and 
overlooked  his  English  mother.  But  Nadine  is  the  legiti- 
mate heir,  the  child  of  the  late  Grand  Duke — and  Max  is 
thrust  out  of  the  succession  because  our  father's  marriage 
was  a  morganatic  one." 

"Four  father?" 

"Yes" — with  a  brief  smile — "I  am  the  sister  whose  ex- 
istence you  discovered." 


THE  REAPING  2«1 

For  a  moment  Diana  was  silent.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  her  to  connect  Max  and  Olga  in  any  way ;  the  latter  had 
always  seemed  to  her  to  be  more  or  less  at  open  enmity  with 
him. 

Immediately  her  heart  contracted  with  the  old  haunting 
fear.  What,  then,  was  Adrienne  to  Max  ? 

"Go  on,"  she  whispered  at  last,  under  her  breath.  "Go 
on." 

"I've  never  forgiven  my  father" — Olga  spoke  with  in- 
creasing passion.  "For  his  happiness  with  his  English  wife, 
Max  and  I  have  paid  every  day  of  our  lives!  ...  As  soon 
as  I  was  of  age,  I  refused  the  State  allowance  granted  me 
as  a  daughter  of  Boris  Mazaroff,  and  left  the  Ruvanian  Court. 
Since  then  I've  lived  in  England  as  plain  Miss  Lermontof, 
and  earned  my  own  living.  Not  one  penny  of  their  tainted 
money  will  I  touch!" — fiercely. 

"But  Max — Max!"  broke  in  Diana.  "Tell  me  about 
Max!"  Olga's  personal  quarrel  with  her  country  held  no 
interest  for  a  woman  on  the  rack. 

"Max?"  Olga  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Max  is  either 
a  saint  or  a  fool — God  knows  which!  For  his  loyalty  to 
the  House  that  branded  him  with  a  stigma,  and  to  the 
woman  who  robbed  him  of  his  heritage,  has  never  failed." 

"You  mean — Adrienne?"  whispered  Diana,  as  Olga 
paused  an  instant,  shaken  by  emotion. 

"Yes,  I  mean  Adrienne — Nadine  Mazaroff.  Her  parents 
were  killed  in  the  Ruvanian  revolution — butchered  by  the 
mob  on  the  very  steps  of  the  palace.  But  she  herself  was 
saved  by  my  brother.  At  the  time  the  revolt  broke  out,  he 
was  living  in  Borovnitz,  the  capital,  and  he  rushed  off  to  the 
palace  and  contrived  to  rescue  Nadine  and  get  her  away 
to  England.  Since  then,  while  the  Royalist  party  have  been 
working  day  and  night  for  the  restoration  of  the  Mazaroffs, 
Max  has  watched  over  her  safety."  She  paused,  resuming 
with  an  accent  of  jealous  resentment:  "And  it  has  been 
no  easy  task.  German  money  backed  the  revolution,  in  the 


262  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

hope  that  when  Ruvania  grew  tired  of  her  penny-farthing 
republic — as  she  was  bound  to  do — Germany  might  step  in 
again  and  convert  Ruvania  into  a  little  dependent  State  un- 
der Prussia.  There's  always  a  German  princeling  handy 
for  any  vacant  throne!" — contemptuously — "and  in  the 
event  of  a  big  European  War,  Ruvania  in  German  hands 
would  provide  an  easy  entrance  into  Russia.  So  you  see, 
Nadine,  alive  and  in  safety,  was  a  perpetual  menace  to  the 
German  plans.  For  some  years  she  was  hidden  in  a  convent 
down  in  the  West  Country,  not  very  far  from  Crailing,  and 
after  a  while  people  came  to  believe  that  she,  too,  had  per- 
ished in  the  revolution.  It  was  only  then  that  Max  allowed 
her  to  emerge  from  the  convent,  and  by  that  time  she  had 
grown  from  a  young,  unformed  girl  into  a  woman,  so  that 
there  was  little  danger  of  her  being  recognised  by  any  casual 
observer — or  even  by  the  agents  of  the  anti-royalist  party." 

"Max  seems  to  have  done — a  great  deal — for  her,"  said 
Diana,  speaking  slowly  and  rather  painfully. 

Olga  flashed  her  a  brief  look  of  understanding. 

"Yes,"  she  said  quietly.  "He  has  done  everything  that 
patriotism  demanded  of  him — even" — meaningly — "to  the 
sacrificing  of  his  own  personal  happiness.  ...  It  was  en- 
tirely his  idea  that  Nadine  should  pass  as  an  actress.  She 
always  had  dramatic  talent,  and  when  she  came  out  of  the 
convent  he  arranged  that  she  should  study  for  the  stage. 
He  believed  that  there  was  no  safer  way  of  concealing  her 
identity  than  by  providing  her  with  an  entirely  different  one 
— and  a  very  obvious  one  at  that.  And  events  have  proved 
him  right.  After  all,  people  only  become  suspicious  when 
they  see  signs  of  secrecy,  and  there  is  no  one  more  con- 
stantly in  the  public  eye  than  an  actress.  The  last  place 
you  would  look  for  a  missing  grand  duchess  is  on  the  Eng- 
lish stage!  The  very  daring  and  publicity  of  the  thing 
made  it  a  success.  No  one  guessed  who  she  was,  and  only 
I,  I  and  Carlo  Baroni,  knew.  Oh,  yes,  I  was  sworn  to  se- 
crecy"— as  she  read  the  question  in  Diana's  eye — "and  when 


THE  REAPING  263 

I  saw  you  and  Max  drifting  apart,  and  knew  that  a  word 
from  me  could  set  things  right,  I've  been  tempted  again  and 
again  to  break  my  oath.  Thank  God!" — passionately — 
"Oh,  thank  God!  I  can  speak  now!" 

She  twisted  her  shoulders  as  though  freed  from  some 
heavy  burden. 

"You  thank  God  ?  You?"  Diana  spoke  with  bitter  un- 
belief. "Why,  it  was  you  who  made  things  a  thousand 
times  worse  between  us — you  who  goaded  me  into  fresh  sus- 
picions. You  never  helped  me  to  believe  in  him — although 
you  knew  the  truth !  You  tried  to  part  us !" 

"I  know.  I  did  try,"  acknowledged  Olga  frankly.  "I'd 
borne  it  all  for  years — watched  my  brother  sheltering  Na- 
dine,  working  for  her,  using  his  genius  to  write  plays  for 
her — spilling  all  his  happiness  at  her  feet — and  I  couldn't 
endure  it  any  longer.  I  thought — oh !  I  prayed  that  when 
it  came  to  a  choice  between  you  and  Nadine  he  would  give 
way — let  Nadine  fend  for  herself.  And  that  was  why  I 
tried  to  anger  you  against  him — to  drive  you  into  forcing 
his  hand."  She  paused,  her  breast  heaving  tumultuously. 
"But  the  plan  failed.  Max  remained  staunch,  and  only  his 
happiness  came  crashing  down  about  his  ears  instead.  There 
is" — bleakly — "no  saving  saints  and  martyrs  against  their 
will." 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  and  Diana  made  a  few  waver- 
ing steps  towards  a  chair  and  sat  down.  She  felt  as  though 
her  legs  would  no  longer  support  her. 

In  a  mad  moment,  half-crazed  by  the  new  fear  which  the 
newspaper  paragraph  had  inspired  in  her,  she  had  closed  the 
only  road  which  might  have  led  her  back  to  Max.  Yesterday, 
still  unwitting  of  how  infinitely  she  had  wronged  him,  pas- 
sionately, humbly  ready  to  give  him  the  trust  he  had  de- 
manded, she  might  have  gone  to  him.  But  to-day,  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  truth  had  taken  from  her  the  power  to  make 
atonement,  and  had  raised  a  barrier  between  herself  and 
Max  which  nothing  in  the  world  could  ever  break  down. 


264  THE  SPLENDID  TOLLY 

She  had  failed  her  man  in  the  hour  of  his  need,  and  hence- 
forth she  must  walk  outcast  in  desert  places. 

There  were  still  many  gaps  in  the  story  to  he  filled  in.  But 
one  thing  stood  out  clearly  from  amidst  the  chaos  which 
enveloped  her,  and  that  was,  that  she  had  misjudged  her 
husband — terribly,  unforgivably  misjudged  him. 

It  was  loyalty,  not  love,  that  he  had  given  Adrienne,  and 
he  had  been  right — a  thousand  times  right — in  refusing  to 
reveal,  even  to  his  wife,  the  secret  which  was  not  his  alone, 
and  upon  which  hung  issues  of  life  and  death  and  the  ulti- 
mate destiny  of  a  country — perhaps,  even,  of  Europe  itself ! 

It  was  to  save  his  country  from  the  Prussian  claw  that 
Max  had  sacrificed  himself  with  the  pure  fervour  of  a 
patriot,  at  no  matter  what  cost!  And  she,  Diana,  by  her 
lack  of  faith,  her  petty  jealousy,  had  sent  him  from  her,  had 
seen  to  it  that  that  cost  included  even  his  happiness ! 

She  had  failed  him  every  way — trailing  the  glory  of  love's 
golden  raiment  in  the  dust  of  the  highway. 

If  she  had  but  fulfilled  her  womanhood,  what  might  not 
her  unshaken  faith  have  meant  to  a  man  fighting  a  battle 
against  such  bitter  odds?  JSTo  matter  how  worn  with  the 
stress  of  incessant  watchfulness,  or  wearied  by  the  strain 
of  constant  planning  and  the  need  to  forestall  each  move  of 
the  enemy,  he  would  have  found,  always  waiting  for  him,  a 
refuge,  a  quiet  haven  where  love  dwelt  and  where  he  might 
forget  for  a  space  and  be  at  rest.  All  this,  which  had  been 
hers  to  give,  she  had  withheld. 

The  silence  deepened  in  the  room.  The  brilliant  sun- 
shine, slanting  in  through  the  slats  of  the  Venetian  blinds, 
seemed  out  of  place  in  what  had  suddenly  become  a  temple 
of  pain.  Somewhere  outside  a  robin  chirruped,  the  cheery 
little  sound  holding,  for  one  of  the  two  women  sitting  there, 
a  note  of  bitter  mockery. 

Suddenly  Diana  dropped  her  head  on  her  hands  with  a 
shudder. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  whispered.     "Oh,  God!" 


THE  REAPING  265 

Olga  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  her  knee. 

"You  can  go  back  to  him  now,  and  give  him  all  the  happi- 
ness that  he  has  missed,"  she  said  steadily. 

"Go  back  to  him  ?"  Diana  lifted  her  head  and  stared  at 
her  with  dull  eyes.  "Oh,  no.  I  shan't  do  that." 

"You  won't  go  back?"  Olga  spoke  slowly,  as  though  she 
doubted  her  own  hearing. 

A  faint,  derisive  smile  flickered  across  Diana's  lips. 

"How  could  I  ?  Do  you  suppose  that — -that  having  failed 
him  when  he  asked  me  to  believe  in  him,  I  could  go  back  to 
him  now — now  that  I  know  everything?  .  .  .  Oh,  no,  I 
couldn't  do  that.  I've  nothing  to  offer  him — now — nothing 
to  give — neither  faith  nor  trust,  because  I  know  the  whole 
truth."  She  spoke  with  the  quiet  finality  of  one  who  can 
see  no  hope,  no  possibility  of  better  things,  anywhere.  The 
words  "Too  late!"  beat  in  her  brain  like  the  pendulum  of  a 
clock,  maddeningly  insistent. 

"If  only  I  had  been  content  to  go  to  him  without  know- 
ing!" she  went  on  tonelessly.  "But  that  paragraph  in  the 
paper — it  frightened  me.  I  felt  that  I  must  know  if — if  I 
had  been  wronging  him  all  the  time.  And  I  had !"  she  ended 
wearily.  "I  had."  Then,  after  a  moment:  "So  you  see,  I 
can't  go  back  to  him." 

"You — can't — go — back  ?"  The  words  fell  slowly,  one  by 
one,  from  Olga's  lips.  "Do  you  mean  that  you  won't  go 
back  now — now  that  you  know  he  has  never  failed  you  as 
you  thought  he  had ?  .  .  .  Oh!" — rapidly — "you  can't  mean 
that.  You  won't — you  can't  refuse  to  go  back  now." 

Diana  lifted  a  grey,  drawn  face. 

"Don't  you  see,"  she  said  monotonously,  "it's  just  because 
of  that — because  he  hasn't  failed  me  while  I've  failed  him 
so  utterly — that  I  can't  go  back  ?" 

Olga  turned  on  her  swiftly,  her  green  eyes  blazing  dan- 
gerously. 

"It's  your  pride !"  she  cried  fiercely.  "It's  your  damnable 
pride  that's  standing  in  the  way!  Merciful  heavens!  Did 


266  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

you  ever  love  him,  I  wonder,  that  you're  too  proud  to  ask  his 
forgiveness  now — now  when  you  know  what  you've  done?" 

Diana's  lips  moved  in  a  pitiful  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "It's  not  that. 
I've  ...  no  pride  .  .  .  left,  I  think.  But  I  can't  be  mean 
— mean  enough  to  crawl  back  now."  She  paused,  then  went 
on  with  an  inflection  of  irony  in  her  low,  broken  voice. 
"  'Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap.'  .  .  . 
Well,  I'm  reaping— that's  all." 

Like  the  keen  thrust  of  a  knife  came  Olga's  answer. 

"And  must  he,  too,  reap  your  sowing  ?  For  that's  what 
it  amounts  to — that  Max  must  suffer  for  your  sin.  Oh ! 
He's  paid  enough  for  others!  .  .  .  Diana" — imploringly — 
"Max  is  leaving  England  to-night.  Go  back  to  him  now — 
don't  wait  until  it's  too  late." 

"No"  Diana  spoke  in  dead,  flat  tones.  "Can't  you  un- 
derstand?"— moving  her  head  restlessly.  "Do  you  suppose 
— even  if  he  forgave  me — that  he  could  ever  believe  in  me 
again  ?  He  would  never  be  certain  that  I  really  trusted  him. 
He  would  always  feel  unsure  of  me." 

"If  you  can  think  that,  then  you  haven't  understood  Max 
— or  his  love  for  you,"  retorted  Olga  vehemently.  "Oh! 
How  can  I  make  you  see  it  ?  You  keep  on  balancing  this 
against  that — what  you  can  give,  what  Max  can  believe — 
weighing  out  love  as  though  it  were  sold  by  the  ounce !  Max 
loves  you — loves  you!  And  there  aren't  any  limitations  to 
love!"  She  broke  off  abruptly,  her  voice  shaking.  "Can't 
you  believe  it  ?"  she  added  helplessly,  after  a  minute. 

Diana  shook  her  head. 

"I  think  you  mean  to  be  kind,"  she  said  patiently.  "But 
love  is  a  giving.  And  I — have  nothing  to  give." 

"And  you're  too  proud  to  take." 

"Yes  ...  if  you  call  that  pride.  I  can't  take — when  I've 
nothing  to  give." 

"Then  you  don't  love!  You  don't  know  what  it  means 
to  love !  Diana" — Olga's  voice  rose  in  passionate  entreaty — 


THE  REAPING  267 

"for  God's  sake  go  to  him !  He's  suffered  so  much.  Forget 
what  people  may  think — what  even  he  may  think !  Throw 
your  pride  overboard  and  remember  only  that  he  loves  you 
and  has  need  of  you.  Go  to  him!" 

She  ceased,  and  her  eyes  implored  Diana's.  No  matter 
what  may  have  been  her  shortcomings — and  they  were  many, 
for  she  was  a  hard,  embittered  woman — at  least,  in  her  de- 
votion to  her  brother,  Olga  Lermontof  approached  very 
nearly  to  the  heroic. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  last  Diana  spoke  in  low, 
shaken  tones,  her  head  bowed. 

"I  can't !"  she  whispered.  "I  shall  never  forgive  myself. 
And  I  can't  ask  Max  to — forgive  me.  .  .  .  He  couldn't. 
The  last  words  were  hardly  audible. 

For  a  moment  Olga  stood  quite  still,  gazing  with  hard  eyes 
at  the  slight  figure  hunched  into  drooping  lines  of  utter 
weariness.  Once  her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came.  Then 
she  turned  away,  walking  with  lagging  footsteps,  and  a  min- 
ute later  the  door  opened  and  closed  quietly  again  behind 
her. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

CAELO   BABONI  EXPLAINS 

DIANA  sat  on,  very  still,  very  silent,  staring  straight  in 
front  of  her  with  wide,  tearless  eyes.    Only  now  and 
again  a  long,  shuddering  sigh  escaped  her,  like  the  caught 
breath  of  a  child  that  has  cried  till  it  is  utterly  exhausted 
and  can  cry  no  more. 

She  felt  that  she  had  come  to  an  end  of  things.  Nothing 
could  undo  the  past,  and  ahead  of  her  stretched  the  future, 
empty  and  void  of  promise. 

Presently  the  creak  of  the  door  reopening  roused  her,  and 
she  turned,  instantly  on  the  defensive,  anticipating  that 
Olga  had  come  back  to  renew  the  struggle.  But  it  was  only 
Baroni,  who  approached  her  with  a  look  of  infinite  concern 
on  his  kind  old  face. 

"My  child  I"  he  began.  "My  child !  ...  So,  then !  You 
know  all  that  there  is  to  know." 

Diana  looked  up  wearily. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.     "I  know  it  all." 

The  old  maestro's  eyes  softened  as  they  rested  upon  her, 
and  when  he  spoke  again,  his  queer  husky  voice  was  toned 
to  a  note  of  extraordinary  sweetness. 

"My  dear  pupil,  if  it  had  been  possible,  I  would  haf  spai 
you  this  knowledge.     It  was  wrong  of  Olga  to  tell  you- 
above  all" — his  face  creasing  with  anxiety  as  the  ruling 
sion  asserted  itself  irrepressibly — "to  tell  you  on  a  day  whei 
you  haf  to  sing!" 

"I  made  her,"  answered  Diana  listlessly.     She  passed  he 
hand  wearily  across  her  forehead.     "Don't  worry,  Maestro, 
I  shall  be  able  to  sing  to-night." 

268 


CAKLO  BARONI  EXPLAINS  269 

"Tiensf  But  you  are  all  to  pieces,  my  child !  You  will 
drink  a  glass  of  champagne — now,  at  once,"  he  insisted, 
adding  persuasively  as  she  shook  her  head,  "To  please  me, 
is  it  not  so  ?" 

Diana's  lips  curved  in  a  tired  smile. 

"Is  champagne  the  cure  for  a  heartache,  then,  Maestro?" 

Baroni's  eyes  grew  suddenly  sad. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  only  death — or  a  great  love — can  heal  the 
wound  that  lies  in  the  heart,"  he  answered  gently.  He 
paused,  then  resumed  crisply:  "But,  meanwhile,  we  haf  to 
live — and  prima  donnas  haf  to  sing.  So  ...  the  little  glass 
of  wine  in  my  room,  is  it  not  ?" 

He  tucked  her  arm  within  his,  patting  her  hand  paternally, 
and  led  her  into  his  own  sanctum,  where  he  settled  her 
comfortably  in  a  big  easy-chair  beside  the  fire,  and  poured 
her  out  a  glass  of  wine,  watching  her  sip  it  with  a  glow  of 
satisfaction  in  his  eyes. 

"That  goes  better,  hein?  This  Olga — she  had  not  reflected 
sufficiently.  It  was  too  late  for  the  truth  to  do  good;  it 
could  only  pain  and  grieve  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Diana.  "It  is  too  late  now.  .  .  .  I've  paid 
for  my  ignorance  with  my  happiness — and  Max's,"  she  added 
in  a  lower  tone.  She  looked  across  at  Baroni  with  sudden 
resentment.  "And  you — you  knew!"  she  continued.  "Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  but  I  can  guess!" — scornfully. 
"It  suited  your  purpose  for  me  to  quarrel  with  my  husband ; 
it  brought  me  back  to  the  concert  platform.  My  happiness 
counted  for  nothing — against  that!" 

Baroni  regarded  her  patiently. 

"And  do  you  regret  it?  Would  you  be  willing,  now,  to 
give  up  your  career  as  a  prima  donna — and  all  that  it 
means  ?" 

A  vision  rose  up  before  Diana  of  what  life  would  be  de- 
nuded of  the  glamour  and  excitement,  the  perpetual 
triumphs,  the  thrilling  sense  of  power  her  singing  gave  her 


270  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

— the  dull,  flat  monotony  of  it,  and  she  caught  her  breath 
sharply  in  instinctive  recoil. 

"No,"  she  admitted  slowly.  "I  couldn't  give  it  up — 
now." 

An  odd  look  of  satisfaction  overspread  Baroni's  face. 

"Then  do  not  blame  me,  my  child.  For  haf  I  not  given 
you  a  consolation  for  the  troubles  of  life  ?" 

"I  need  never  have  had  those  troubles  to  bear  if  you  had 
been  frank  with  me!"  she  flashed  back.  "You — you  were 
not  bound  by  any  oath  of  secrecy.  Oh!  It  was  cruel  of 
you,  Maestro!" 

Her  eyes,  bitterly  accusing,  searched  his  face. 

"Tchut !  Tchut !  But  you  are  too  quick  to  think  evil  of 
your  old  maestro ."  He  hesitated,  then  went  on  slowly :  "It 
is  a  long  story,  my  dear — and  sometimes  a  very  sad  story. 
I  did  not  think  it  would  pass  my  lips  again  in  this  world. 
!But  for  you,  who  are  so  dear  to  me,  I  will  break  the  silence 
of  years.  .  .  .  Listen,  then.  When  you,  my  little  Pepper- 
pot,  had  not  yet  come  to  earth  to  torment  your  parents,  but 
were  still  just  a  tiny  thought  in  the  corner  of  God's  mind, 
I — your  old  Baroni — I  was  in  Ruvania." 

"You— in  Euvania?" 

He  nodded. 

"Yes.  I  went  there  first  as  a  professor  of  singing  at  the 
Borovnitz  Conservatoire — per  Bacco  !  But  they  haf  the  very 
soul  of  music,  those  Ruvanians!  And  I  was  appointed  to 
attend  also  at  the  palace  to  give  lessons  to  the  Grand  Duchess. 
Her  voice  was  only  a  little  less  beautiful  than  your  own." 
He  hesitated,  as  though  he  found  it  difficult  to  continue.  At 
last  he  said  almost  shyly:  "Thou,  my  child,  thou  hast  known 
love.  ...  To  me,  too,  at  the  palace,  came  that  best  gift  of 
the  good  God." 

He  paused,  and  Diana  whispered  stammeringly : 

"Not— not  the  Grand  Duchess?" 

"Yes — Sonia."  The  old  maestro's  eyes  kindled  with  a 
soft  luminance  as  his  whispering  voice  caressed  the  little 


CAELO  BAEONI  EXPLAINS  271 

name.  "Hers,  of  course,  had  been  merely  a  marriage  dic- 
tated by  reasons  of  State,  and  from  the  time  of  our  first 
meeting,  our  hearts  were  in  each  other's  keeping.  But  she 
never  failed  in  duty  or  in  loyalty.  Only  once,  when  I  was 
leaving  Ruvania,  never  to  return,  did  she  give  me  her  lips 
at  parting."  Again  he  fell  silent,  his  thoughts  straying  back 
across  the  years  between  to  that  day  when  he  had  taken 
farewell  of  the  woman  who  had  held  his  very  soul  between 
her  hands.  Presently,  with  an  effort,  he  resumed  his  story. 
"I  stayed  at  the  Ruvanian  Court  many  years — there  was  a 
post  of  Court  musician  which  I  filled — and  for  both  of  us 
those  years  held  much  of  sadness.  The  Grand  Duke  Anton 
was  a  domineering  man,  hated  by  every  one;  and  his  wife's 
happiness  counted  for  nothing  with  him.  She  had  failed 
to  give  him  a  son,  and  for  that  he  never  pardoned  her.  I 
think  my  presence  comforted  her  a  little.  That — and  the 
child — the  little  Nadine.  .  .  .  As  much  as  Anton  was  dis- 
liked, so  much  was  his  brother  Boris  beloved  of  the  people. 
His  story  you  know.  Of  this  I  am  sure — that  he  lived  and 
died  without  once  regretting  the  step  he  had  taken  in  marry- 
ing an  Englishwoman.  They  were  lovers  to  the  end,  those 
two." 

Listening  to  the  little  history  of  those  two  tender  love 
tales  that  had  run  their  course  side  by  side,  Diana  almost 
forgot  for  a  moment  how  the  ripples  of  their  influence,  flow- 
ing out  in  ever-widening  circles,  had  touched,  at  last,  even 
her  own  life,  and  had  engulfed  her  happiness. 

But,  as  Baroni  ceased,  the  recollection  of  her  own  bitter 
share  in  the  matter  returned  with  overwhelming  force,  and 
once  more  she  arraigned  him  for  his  silence. 

"I  still  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not  have  told  me 
the  truth  about  Adrienne — about  Nadine  Mazaroff.  Max 
couldn't — I  see  that;  nor  Olga.  But  you  were  bound  by  no 
oath." 

"My  child,  I  was  bound  by  something  stronger  than  an 
oath." 


272  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

The  old  man  crossed  the  room  to  where  there  stood  on  a 
shelf  a  little  ebony  cabinet,  clamped  with  dull  silver  of: 
foreign  workmanship.    He  unlocked  it,  and  withdrew  from 
it  a  letter,  the  paper  faintly  yellowed  and  brittle  with  the 
passage  of  time. 

He  held  it  out  to  Diana. 

"No  eyes  but  mine  haf  ever  rested  on  it  since  it  was  given 
into  my  hand  after  her  death,"  he  said  very  gently.  "But 
you,  my  child,  you  shall  read  it ;  you  are  hurt  and  unhappy, 
battering  against  fate,  and  believing  that  those  who  love  you 
haf  served  you  ill.  But  we  were  all  bound  in  different  ways. 
.  .  .  Read  the  letter,  little  one,  and  thou.  wilt  see  that  I,  too, 
was  not  free." 

Hesitatingly  Diana  unfolded  the  thin  sheet  and  read  the 
few  faded  lines  it  contained. 

"CABIX>  MIO, 

"I  think  the  end  is  coming  for  Anton  and  for  me. 
The  revolt  of  the  people  is  beyond  all  quelling.  My  only 
fear  is  for  Nadine;  my  only  hope  for  her  ultimate  safety 
lies  in  Max.  If  ever,  in  the  time  to  come,  your  silence  or 
your  speech  can  do  aught  for  my  child — in  the  name  of  the 
love  you  gave  me,  I  beg  it  of  you.  In  serving  her,  you  will 
be  serving  me. 

"SONIA." 

i 

Very  slowly  Diana  handed  the  letter  back  to  Baroni. 

"So — that  was  why,"  she  whispered. 

Baroni  bent  his  head. 

"That  was  why.  I  could  not  speak.  But  I  did  all  that 
lay  in  my  power  to  prevent  this  marriage  of  yours." 

"You  did."  A  wan  little  smile  tilted  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  at  the  remembrance. 

"Afterwards — your  happiness  was  on  the  knees  of  the 
gods!" 

"No,"  said  Diana  suddenly.     "No.     It  was  in  my  own 


CARLO  BARONI  EXPLAINS  273 

hands.    Had  I  believed  in  Max  we  should  have  been  happy 

still.  .  .  .  But  I  failed  him." 

.     A  long  silence  followed.    At  last  she  rose,  holding  out  her 

hands. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  simply.    "Thank  you  for  showing 

me  the  letter." 

Baroni  stooped  his  head  and  carried  her  hands  to  his  lips.- 
"My  dear,  we  make  our  mistakes  and  then  we  pay.     It 

is  always  so  in  life.     Love" — and  the  odd,  clouded  voice 

shook  a  little — "Love  brings — great  happiness — and  great 

pain.    Yet  we  would  not  be  without  it" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  AWAKENING 

Q1 OMEHOW  the  interminable  hours  of  the  day  had  at  last 
O  worn  to  evening,  and  Diana  found  herself  standing  in 
front  of  a  big  mirror,  listlessly  watching  Milling  as  she 
bustled  round  her,  putting  the  last  touches  to  her  dress  for 
the  Duchess  of  Linfield's  reception.  The  same  thing  had 
to  be  gone  through  every  concert  night — the  same  patient 
waiting  while  the  exquisite  toilette,  appropriate  to  a  prima 
donna.,  was  consummated  by  Milling's  clever  fingers. 

Only,  this  evening,  every  nerve  in  Diana's  body  was  quiv- 
ering in  rebellion. 

What  was  it  Olga  had  said  ?  "Max  is  leaving  England  to- 
night." So,  while  she  was  being  dressed  like  a  doll  for  the 
pleasuring  of  the  people  who  had  paid  to  hear  her  sing,  Max 
was  being  borne  away  out  of  her  ken,  out  of  her  existence 
for  ever. 

What  a  farce  it  all  seemed !  In  a  little  while  she  would 
be  singing  as  perfectly  as  usual,  bowing  and  smiling  as 
usual,  and  not  one  amongst  the  crowded  audience  would 
know  that  in  reality  it  was  only  the  husk  of  a  woman  who 
stood  there  before  them — the  mere  outer  shell.  All  that  mat- 
tered, the  heart  and  soul  of  her,  was  dead.  She  knew  that 
quite  well.  Probably  she  would  feel  glad  about  it  in  time, 
she  thought,  because  when  one  was  dead  things  didn't  hurt 
any  more.  It  was  dying  that  hurt  .  .  . 

"Your  train,  madam." 

She  started  at  the  sound  of  Milling's  respectful  voice. 
What  a  lop-sided  thing  a  civilised  sense  of  values  seemed  to 
be!  Even  when  you  had  dragged  the  white  robes  of  your 

274 


THE  AWAKENING  275 

spirit  deep  in  the  mire,  you  must  still  be  scrupulously  care- 
ful not  to  soil  the  hem  of  the  white  satin  that  clothed  your 
body. 

She  almost  laughed  aloud,  then  bit  the  laugh  back,  pic- 
turing Milling's  astonished  face.  The  girl  would  think  she 
was  mad.  Perhaps  she  was.  It  didn't  matter  much,  any- 
way. 

Mechanically  she  held  out  her  arm  for  Milling  to  throw 
the  train  of  her  gown  across  it,  and,  picking  up  her  gloves, 
went  slowly  downstairs. 

Baroni,  his  face  wearing  an  expression  of  acute  anxiety, 
was  waiting  for  her  in  the  hall,  restlessly  pacing  to  and  fro. 

"Ah — h!"  His  face  cleared  as  by  magic  when  the 
slender,  white-clad  figure  appeared  round  the  last  bend  of 
the  stairway.  He  had  half  feared  that  at  the  last  moment 
the  strain  of  the  day's  emotion  might  exact  its  penalty,  and 
Diana  prove  unequal  to  the  evening's  demands. 

To  hide  his  obvious  relief,  he  turned  sharply  to  the  maid, 
who  had  followed  her  mistress  downstairs,  carrying  her 
opera  coat  and  furs. 

"Madame's  cloak — make  haste!"  he  commanded  curtly. 
And  when  Diana  had  entered  the  car,  he  waved  aside  the 
manservant  and  himself  tucked  the  big  fur  rug  carefully 
round  her.  There  was  something  rather  pathetic,  almost 
maternal,  in  the  old  man's  care  of  her,  and  Diana's  lips 
quivered. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Maestro"  she  said,  gently  pressing  his 
arm  with  her  hand. 

The  Duchess's  house  was  packed  with  a  complacent  crowd 
of  people,  congratulating  themselves  upon  being  able,  for 
once,  to  combine  duty  and  pleasure,  since  the  purchase- 
money  of  their  tickets  for  the  evening's  entertainment  con- 
tributed to  a  well-known  charity,  and  at  the  same  time  pro- 
cured them  the  privilege  of  hearing  once  more  their  favour- 
ite singer.  Some  there  were  who  had  grounds  for  additional 


276  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

satisfaction  in  the  fact  that,  under  the  wide  cloak  of  charity, 
they  had  managed  to  squeeze  through  the  exclusive  portals 
of  Linfield  House  for  the  first — and  probably  the  last — time 
in  their  lives. 

As  the  singer  made  her  way  through  the  thronged  hall, 
those  who  knew  her  personally  bowed  and  smiled  effusively, 
whilst  those  who  didn't  looked  on  from  afar  and  wished 
they  did.  It  was  not  unlike  a  royal  progress,  and  Diana 
heaved  a  quick  sigh  of  relief  when  at  last  she  found  herself 
in  the  quiet  of  the  little  apartment  set  aside  as  an  artistes' 
room. 

Olga  Lermontof  was  already  there,  and  Diana  greeted 
her  rather  nervously.  She  felt  horribly  uncertain  what  atti- 
tude Miss  Lermontof  might  be  expected  to  adopt  in  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

But  she  need  have  had  no  anxiety  on  that  score.  Olga 
seemed  to  be  just  her  usual  self — grave  and  self-contained, 
her  thin,  dark-browed  face  wearing  its  habitual  half-mocking 
expression.  Apparently  she  had  wiped  out  the  day's  hap- 
penings from  her  mind,  and  had  become  once  more  merely 
the  quiet,  competent  accompanist  to  a  well-known  singer. 

There  was  no  one  else  in  the  artistes'  room.  The  other 
performers  were  mingling  with  the  guests,  only  withdrawing 
from  the  chattering  crowd  when  claimed  by  their  part  in 
the  evening's  entertainment. 

"How  far  on  are  they?"  asked  Diana,  picking  up  the 
programme  and  running  her  eye  down  it. 

"Your  songs  are  the  next  item  but  one,"  replied  Miss 
Lermontof. 

A  violin  solo  preceded  the  two  songs  which,  bracketed 
together  in  the  middle  of  the  programme  as  its  culminating 
point,  made  the  sum  total  of  Diana's  part  in  it,  and  she 
waited  quietly  in  the  little  anteroom  while  the  violinist 
played,  was  encored  and  played  again,  and  throughout  the 
brief  interval  that  followed.  She  felt  that  to-night  she 
could  not  face  the  cheap,  everyday  flow  of  talk  and  compli- 


THE  AWAKENING  277 

ment.  She  would  sing  because  she  had  promised  that  she 
would,  but  as  soon  as  her  part  was  done  she  would  slip 
away  and  go  home — home,  where  she  could  sit  alone  by  the 
dead  embers  of  her  happiness. 

A  little  nutter  of  excitement  rippled  through  the  big  rooms 
when  at  last  she  mounted  the  platform.  People  who  had 
hitherto  been  content  to  remain  in  the  hall,  regarding  the 
music  as  a  pleasant  accompaniment  to  the  interchange  of 
the  day's  news  and  gossip,  now  came  nocking  in  through  the 
doorways,  hoping  to  find  seats,  and  mostly  having  to  content 
themselves  with  standing-room. 

Almost  as  in  a  dream  Diana  waited  for  the  applause  to 
subside,  her  eyes  roaming  half-unconsciously  over  the  big 
assembly. 

It  was  all  so  stalely  familiar — the  little  rustle  of  excite- 
ment, the  preliminary  clapping,  the  settling  down  to  listen, 
and  then  the  sea  of  upturned  faces  spread  out  beneath  her. 

The  memory  of  the  first  time  that  she  had  sung  in  public, 
at  Adrienne's  house  in  Somervell  Street,  came  back  to  her. 
It  had  been  just  such  an  occasion  as  this.  .  .  . 

(Olga  was  playing  the  introductory  bars  of  accompani- 
ment to  her  song,  and,  still  as  in  a  dream,  she  began  to  sing, 
the  exquisite  voice  thrilling  out  into  the  vast  room,  golden 
and  perfect.) 

.  .  .  Adrienne  had  smiled  at  her  encouragingly  from 
across  the  room,  and  Jerry  Leigh  had  been  standing  at  the 
far  end  near  some  big  double  doors.  There  were  double 
doors  to  this  room,  too,  flung  wide  open.  (It  was  odd  how 
clearly  she  could  recall  it  all ;  her  mind  seemed  to  be  work- 
ing quite  independently  of  what  was  going  on  around  her.) 
And  Max  had  been  there.  She  remembered  how  she  had 
believed  him  to  be  still  abroad,  and  then,  how  she  had  looked 
up  and  suddenly  met  his  gaze  across  those  rows  and  rows  of 
unfamiliar  faces.  He  had  come  back. 

Instinctively  she  glanced  towards  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
where,  on  that  other  night  and  in  that  other  room,  he  had 


278  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

been  standing,  and  then  .  .  .  then  ...  was  it  still  only 
the  dream,  the  memory  of  long  ago?  ...  Or  had  God 
worked  a  miracle  ?  .  .  .  Over  the  heads  of  the  people,  Max's 
eyes,  grave  and  tender,  but  unspeakably  sad,  looked  into  hers ! 

A  hand  seemed  to  grip  her  heart,  squeezing  it  so  that  she 
could  not  draw  her  breath.  Everything  grew  blurred  and 
dim  about  her,  but  through  the  blur  she  could  still  see  Max, 
standing  with  his  head  thrown  back  against  the  panelling  of 
the  door,  his  arms  folded  across  his  chest,  and  his  eyes — 
those  grave,  questioning  eyes — fixed  on  her  face. 

Presently  the  darkness  cleared  away  and  she  found  that 
she  was  still  singing — mechanically  her  voice  had  answered 
to  the  long  training  of  years.  But  the  audience  had  heard 
the  great  prima  donna  catch  her  breath  and  falter  in  her 
song.  For  an  instant  it  had  seemed  almost  as  though  she 
might  break  down.  Then  the  tension  passed,  and  the  lovely 
voice,  upborne  by  a  limitless  technique,  had  floated  out  again, 
golden  and  perfect  as  before. 

It  was  only  the  habit  of  surpassing  art  which  had  enabled 
Diana  to  finish  her  song.  Since  last  night,  when  she  had 
seen  Max  for  that  brief  moment  at  the  Embassy,  she  had 
passed  through  the  whole  gamut  of  emotion,  glimpsed  the 
vision  of  coming  happiness,  only  to  believe  that  with  her 
own  hands  she  had  pushed  it  aside.  And  now  she  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  that  Max — Max,  the  man  she  loved — 
was  here,  close  to  her  once  again,  and  that  her  heart  was 
crying  out  for  him.  He  was  hers,  her  mate  out  of  the  whole 
world,  and  in  a  sudden  blinding  flash  of  self-revelation,  she 
recognised  in  her  refusal  to  return  to  him  a  sheer  denial  of 
the  divine  altruism  of  love. 

The  blank,  bewildering  chaos  of  the  last  twelve  hours, 
with  its  turmoil  of  conflicting  passions,  took  on  a  new  aspect, 
and  all  at  once  that  which  had  been  dark  was  become  light. 

From  the  moment  she  had  learned  the  truth  about  her 
husband,  her  thoughts  had  centred  solely  round  herself, 
dwelling — in  all  humility,  it  is  true — but  still  dwelling  none 


THE  AWAKENING  279 

the  less  egotistically  upon  her  personal  failure,  her  own  ir- 
reparable mistake,  her  self-wrought  bankruptcy  of  all  the 
faith  and  absolute  belief  a  woman  loves  to  give  her  lover. 
She  had  thrust  these  things  before  his  happiness,  whereas 
the  stern  and  simple  creed  of  love  places  the  loved  one  first 
and  everything  else  immeasurably  second. 

But  now,  in  this  quickened  moment  of  revelation,  Diana 
knew  that  she  loved  Max  utterly  and  entirely,  that  his  happi- 
ness was  her  supreme  need,  and  that  if  she  let  him  go  from 
her  again,  life  would  be  henceforth  a  poor,  maimed  thing, 
shorn  of  all  meaning. 

It  no  longer  mattered  that  she  had  sinned  against  him, 
that  she  had  nothing  to  bring,  that  she  must  go  to  him  a 
beggar.  The  scales  had  fallen  from  her  eyes,  and  she  realised 
that  in  love  there  is  no  reckoning — no  pitiful  making-up  of 
accounts.  The  pride  that  cannot  take  has  no  place  there; 
where  love  is,  giving  and  taking  are  one  and  indivisible. 

Nothing  mattered  any  longer — nothing  except  that  Max 
was  here — here,  within  reach  of  the  great  love  in  her  heart 
that  was  stretching  out  its  arms  to  him  .  .  .  calling  him 
back. 

The  audience,  ardently  applauding  her  first  song,  saw  her 
turn  and  give  some  brief  instruction  to  her  accompanist, 
who  nodded,  laying  aside  the  song  which  she  had  just  placed 
upon  the  music-desk.  A  little  whisper  ran  through  the  as- 
sembly as  people  asked  each  other  what  song  was  about  to  be 
substituted  for  the  one  on  the  programme,  and  when  the  sad, 
appealing  music  of  "The  Haven  of  Memory,"  stole  out  into 
the  room,  they  smiled  and  nodded  to  one  another,  pleased 
that  the  great  singer  was  giving  them  the  song  in  which  they 
loved  best  to  hear  her. 

Do  you   remember 

Our  great  love's  pure  unfolding, 
The  troth  you  gave, 

And  prayed  for  God's  upholding, 
Long  and  long  agof 


280  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

Out  of  the  past 

A  dream — and  then  the  waking — 
Comes  back  to  me 

Of  love,  and  love's  forsaking, 
Ere  the  summer  waned. 

Ah!   Let  me  dream 

That  still  a  little  kindness 
Dwelt  in  the  smile 

That  chid  my  foolish  blindness, 
When  you  said  good-bye. 

Let  me  remember 

When  I  am  very  lonely, 
How  once  your  love 

But  crowned  and  blessed  me  only, 
Long  and  long  ago. 

There  was  no  faltering  now.  The  beautiful  voice  had 
never  been  more  touching  in  its  exquisite  appeal.  All  the 
unutterable  sweetness  and  humility  and  faith,  the  wistful 
memories,  the  passion  and  surrender  that  love  holds,  dwelt 
in  the  throbbing  notes. 

To  Max,  standing  a  little  apart,  the  width  of  the  room 
betwixt  him  and  the  woman  singing,  it  seemed  as  though  she 
were  entreating  him  .  .  .  calling  to  him.  .  .  . 

The  sad,  tender  words,  poignant  with  regret  and  infinite 
beseeching,  clamoured  against  his  heart,  and  as  the  last  note 
trembled  into  silence,  he  turned  and  made  his  way  blindly 
out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTEK  XXIX 

SACRIFICE 

T~)ID  you  mean  it?" 

JLJ  Errington's  voice  broke  harshly  through  the  silence 
of  the  little  anteroom  where  Diana  waited  alone.  It  had  a 
curious,  cracked  sound,  and  his  breath  laboured  like  that  of 
a  man  who  has  run  himself  out. 

For  a  moment  she  kept  her  face  hidden,  trying  to  steady 
herself,  but  at  last  she  turned  towards  him,  and  in  her  eyes 
was  a  soft  shining — a  strange,  sweet  fire. 

"Max!"  The  whispered  name  was  hardly  audible;  trem- 
ulous and  wistful  it  seemed  to  creep  across  the  room. 

But  he  heard  it.  In  a  moment  his  arms  were  round  her, 
and  he  had  gathered  her  close  against  his  heart.  And  so 
they  remained  for  a  space,  neither  speaking. 

Presently  Diana  lifted  her  head. 

"Max,  it  was  because  I  loved  you  so  that  I  was  so  hard 
and  bitter — only  because  I  loved  you  so." 

"I  know,"  was  all  he  said.    And  he  kissed  her  hair. 

"Do  you  ?" — wistfully.  "I  wonder  if — if  a  man  can  un- 
derstand how  a  woman  can  be  so  cruel  to  what  she  loves  ?" 

And  as  he  had  no  answer  to  this  (since,  after  all,  a  man 
cannot  be  expected  to  understand  all — or  even  very  much — 
that  a  woman  does),  he  kissed  her  lips. 

She  crept  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"Max!  Do  you  still  care  for  me — like  that?"  There 
was  wonder  and  thanksgiving  in  her  voice.  "Oh,  my  dear, 
I'm  down  in  the  dust  at  your  feet — I've  failed  you  utterly, 
wronged  you  every  way.  Even  if  you  forgive  me,  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself.  But  I'm — all  yours,  Max." 

281 


282  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

With  a  sudden  jealous  movement  he  folded  her  more 
closely  in  his  arms. 

"Let  me  have  a  few  moments  of  this,"  he  muttered,  a  little 
breathlessly.  "A  few  moments  of  thinking  you  have  come 
back  to  me." 

"But  I  have  come  back  to  you !"  Her  eyes  grew  wide  and 
startled  with  a  sudden,  desperate  apprehension.  "You  won't 
send  me  away  again — not  now?" 

His  face  twisted  with  pain. 

"Beloved,  I  must!  God  knows  how  hard  it  will  be — but 
there  is  no  other  way." 

"No  other  way  ?"  She  broke  from  his  arms,  searching  his 
face  with  her  frightened  eyes.  "What  do  you  mean?  .  .  . 
What  do  you  mean?  Don't  you — care — any  longer?" 

He  smiled,  as  a  man  may  who  is  asked  whether  the  sun 
will  rise  to-morrow. 

"Not  that,  beloved.  Never  that.  I've  always  cared,  and 
I  shall  go  on  caring  through  this  world  and  into  the  next — 
even  though,  after  to-night,  we  may  never  be  together  again." 

"Never — together  again  ?"  She  clung  to  him.  "Oh,  why 
do  you  say  such  things?  I  can't — I  can't  live  without  you 
now.  Max,  I'm  sorry — sorry!  I've  been  punished  enough 
— don't  punish  me  any  more  by  sending  me  away  from  you." 

"Punish  you !  Heart's  dearest,  there  has  never  been  any 
thought  of  punishment  in  my  mind.  Heaven  knows,  I've  re- 
proached myself  bitterly  enough  for  all  the  misery  I've 
brought  on  you." 

"Then  why — why  do  you  talk  of  sending  me  away  ?" 

"I'm  not  going  to  send  you  away.  It  is  I  who  have  to  go. 
Oh,  beloved !  I  ought  never  to  have  come  here  this  evening. 
But  I  thought  if  I  might  see  you — just  once  again — before 
I  went  out  into  the  night,  I  should  at  least  have  that  to  re- 
member. .  .  .  And  then  you  sang,  and  it  seemed  as  though 
you  were  calling  me.  ..." 

"Yes,"  she  said  very  softly.  "I  called  you.  I  wanted  you 
so."  Then,  after  a  moment,  with  sudden,  womanish  curi' 


SACRIFICE  283 

osity :  "How  did  you  .know  I  was  singing  here  to-night  ?" 

"Olga  told  me.  She's  bitterly  opposed  to  all  that  I've  been 
doing,  but" — smiling  faintly — "she  has  occasional  spasms 
of  compassion  when  she  remembers  that,  after  all,  I'm  a 
poor  devil  who's  being  thrust  out  of  paradise." 

"She  loves  you,"  Diana  answered  simply.  "I  think  she 
has  loved  you — better — than  I  did,  Max.  But  not  more!" 
she  added  jealously.  "JN"o  one  could  love  you  more,  dear." 

After  a  pause,  she  asked : 

"I  suppose  Olga  told  you  that  I  know — everything?" 

"Yes.  I'm  glad  you  know" — quietly.  "It  makes  it  easier 
for  me  to  tell  you  why  I  must  go  away — out  of  your  life." 

She  leaned  nearer  to  him,  her  hands  on  his -shoulders. 

"Don't  go!"  she  whispered.    "Ah,  don't  go!" 

"I  must,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "Listen,  beloved,  and  then 
you  will  see  that  there  is  no  other  way.  ...  I  married  you, 
believing  that  when  Nadine  would  be  safely  settled  on  the 
throne,  I  should  be  free  to  live  my  own  life,  free  to  come 
back  to  England — and  you.  If  I  had  not  believed  that,  I 
shouldn't  have  told  you  that  I  cared;  I  should  have  gone 
away  and  never  seen  you  again.  But  now — now  I  know  that 
I  shall  never  be  free,  never  able  to  live  in  England." 

He  paused,  gathering  her  a  little  closer  into  his  arms. 

"Everything  is  settled.  Russia  has  helped,  and  Ruvania 
is  ready  to  welcome  Nadine's  return.  .  .  .  She  is  in  Paris, 
now,  waiting  for  me  to  take  her  there.  ...  It  has  been  a 
long  and  difficult  matter,  and  the  responsibility  of  Nadine's 
well-being  in  England  has  been  immense.  A  year  ago,  the 
truth  as  to  her  identity  leaked  out  somehow — reached  our 
enemies'  ears,  and  since  then  I've  never  really  known  an  in- 
stant's peace' concerning  her  safety.  You  remember  the 
attack  which  was  made  on  her  outside  the  theatre  ?" 

Diana  nodded,  shame-faced,  remembering  its  ultimate  out- 
come. 

"Well,  the  man  who  shot  at  her  was  in  the  pay  of  the 
Republic — German  pay,  actually.  That  yarn  about  the 


284  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

actor  down  on  his  luck  was  cooked  up  for  the  papers,  just  to 
throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  puhlic.  ...  To  watch  over 
Nadine's  safety  has  been  my  work.  Now  the  time  has  come 
•when  she  can  go  back  and  take  her  place  as  Grand  Duchess 
of  Ruvania.  And  I  must  go  with  her." 

"No,  no.  Why  need  you  go?  You'll  have  done  your 
work,  set  her  securely  on  the  throne.  Ah,  Max !  don't  speak 
of  going,  dear."  Her  voice  shook  incontrollably. 

"There  is  other  work  still  to  be  done,  beloved — harder 
work,  man's  work.  And  I  can't  turn  away  and  take  my 
shoulder  from  the  wheel.  It  needs  no  great  foresight  to  tell 
that  there  is  trouble  brewing  on  the  Continent;  a  very  little 
thing  would  set  the  whole  of  Europe  in  a  blaze.  And  when 
that  time  arrives,  if  Ruvania  is  to  come  out  of  the  struggle 
with  her  independence  unimpaired,  it  will  only  be  by  the 
utmost  effort  of  all  her  sons.  Nadine  cannot  stand  alone. 
What  can  a  woman  do  unaided  when  the  nations  are  fight- 
ing for  supremacy?  The  country  will  need  a  man  at  the 
helm,  and  I  must  stand  by  Nadine." 

"But  why  you  ?    Why  not  another  ?" 

"No  other  is  under  the  same  compulsion  as  I.  As  you 
know,  my  father  put  his  wife  first  and  his  country  second. 
It  is  difficult  to  blame  him  .  .  .  she  was  very  beautiful,  my 
mother.  But  no  man  has  the  right  to  turn  away  from  his 
allotted  task.  And  because  my  father  did  that,  the  call  to 
me  to  serve  my  country  is  doubly  strong.  I  have  to  pay 
back  that  of  which  he  robbed  her." 

"And  have  I  no  claim  ?  Max !  Max !  Doesn't  your  love 
count  at  all  ?" 

The  sad,  grieving  words  wrung  his  heart. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  said  unsteadily.  "That's  the  biggest  thing 
in  the  world — our  love — isn't  it  ?  But  this  other  is  a  debt  of 
honour,  and  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  shirk  that,  would  you, 
sweet  ?  I  must  pay — even  if  it  costs  me  my  happiness.  .  .  . 
It  may  seem  to  you  as  though  I'd  set  your  happiness,  too, 
aside.  God  knows,  it  hasn't  been  easy !  But  what  could  I 


SACRIFICE  285 

do?  I  conceive  that  a  man's  honour  stands  hefore  every- 
thing. That  was  why  I  let  you  believe — what  you  did.  My 
word  was  given.  I  couldn't  clear  myself.  ...  So  you  see, 
now,  beloved,  why  we  must  part." 

"No,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  don't  see.  Why  can't  I  come 
to  Ruvania  with  you  ?" 

A  sudden  light  leaped  into  his  eyes,  but  it  died  away  al- 
most instantly.  He  shook  his  head. 

"No,  you  can't  come  with  me.  Because — don't  you  see, 
dear  ?" — very  gently  and  pitifully.  "As  my  wife,  as  cousin 
of  the  Grand  Duchess  herself,  you  couldn't  still  be — a  pro- 
fessional singer." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Slowly  Diana  drew  away  from 
her  husband,  staring  at  him  with  dilated  eyes. 

"Then  that — that  was  what  Baroni  meant  when  he  told 
me  a  time  would  come  when  your  wife  could  no  longer  sing 
in  public  ?" 

Max  bent  his  head. 

"Yes.     That  was  what  he  meant." 

Diana  stood  silently  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands. 
Presently  she  spoke  again,  and  there  was  a  new  note  in  her 
voice — a  note  of  quiet  gravity  and  steadfast  decision. 

"Dear,  I  am  coming  with  you.  The  singing" — smiling  a 
little  tremulously — "doesn't  count — against  love." 

Max  made  a  sudden  movement  as  though  to  take  her  in 
his  arms,  then  checked  himself  as  suddenly. 

"No,"  he  said  quietly.  "You  can't  come  with  me.  It 
would  be  impossible — out  of  the  question.  You  haven't 
realised  all  it  would  entail.  After  being  a  famous  singer — 
to  become  merely  a  private  gentlewoman — a  lady  of  a  little 
unimportant  Court !  The  very  idea  is  absurd.  Always  you 
would  miss  the  splendour  of  your  life,  the  triumphs,  the 
being  feted  and  made  much  of — everything  that  your  singing 
has  brought  you.  It  would  be  inevitable.  And  I  couldn't 
endure  to  see  the  regret  growing  in  your  eyes  day  by  day. 
Oh,  my  dear,  don't  think  I  don't  realise  the  generosity  of  the 


286  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

thought — and  bless  you  for  it  a  thousand  times!  But  I 
won't  let  you  pay  with  the  rest  of  your  life  for  a  heaven-kind 
impulse  of  the  moment." 

His  words  fell  on  Diana's  consciousness,  each  one  weighted 
with  a  world  of  significance.  For  she  knew,  even  as  she 
listened,  that  he  spoke  but  the  bare  truth. 

Very  quietly  she  moved  away  from  him  and  stood  by  the 
chimney-piece,  staring  down  into  the  grate  where  the  embers 
lay  dying.  It  seemed  to  typify  what  her  life  would  be, 
shorn  of  the  glamour  with  which  her  glorious  voice  had 
decked  it.  It  would  be  as  though  one  had  plucked  out  the 
glowing  heart  of  a  fire,  leaving  only  ashes — dead  ashes  of 
remembrance. 

And  in  exchange  for  the  joyous  freedom  of  Bohemia,  the 
happy  brotherhood  of  artistes,  there  would  be  the  deadly, 
daily  ceremonial  of  a  court,  the  petty  jealousies  and  intrigue 
of  a  palace ! 

Very  clearly  Diana  saw  what  the  choice  involved,  and 
with  that  clear  vision  came  the  realisation  that  here  was  a 
sacrifice  which  she,  who  had  so  profaned  love's  temple, 
could  yet  make  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  And  within  her  grew 
and  deepened  the  certainty  that  no  sacrifice  in  the  world  is 
too  great  to  make  for  the  sake  of  love,  except  the  sacrifice 
of  honour. 

Here  at  last  was  something  she  could  give  to  the  man 
she  loved.  She  need  not  go  to  him  with  empty  hands.  .  .  . 

She  turned  again  to  her  husband,  and  her  eyes  were 
radiant  with  the  same  soft  shining  that  had  lit  them  when 
he  had  first  come  to  her  in  answer  to  her  singing. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  broke  softly.  "Take  me 
with  you.  Oh,  but  you  must  think  me  very  slow  and  stupid 
not  to  have  learned — yet — what  love  means !  .  .  .  Ah,  Max ! 
Max !  What  am  I  to  do,  dear,  if  you  won't  let  me  go  with 
you  ?  What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  love  that  is  in  my  heart 
— if  you  won't  take  it?"  For  a  moment  she  stood  there 
tremulously  smiling,  while  he  stared  at  her,  in  his  eyes  a 


SACRIFICE  287 

kind  of  bewilderment  and  unbelief  fighting  the  dawn  of  an 
unutterable  joy. 

Then  at  last  he  understood,  and  his  arms  went  round 
her. 

"If  I  won't  take  it!"  he  cried,  his  voice  all  shaken  with 
the  wonder  of  it.  "Oh,  my  sweet !  I'll  take  it  as  a  beggar 
takes  a  gift,  as  a  blind  man  sight — on  my  knees,  thanking 
God  for  it — and  for  you." 

And  so  Diana  came  again  into  her  kingdom,  whence  she 
had  wandered  outcast  so  many  bitter  months. 

Presently  she  drew  him  down  beside  her  on  to  a  big, 
cushioned  divan. 

"Max,  what  a  lot  of  time  we've  wasted !" 

"So  much,  sweet,  that  all  the  rest  of  life  we'll  be  making- 
up  for  it."  And  he  kissed  her  on  the  mouth  by  way  of  a 
beginning. 

"What  will  Baroni  say?"  she  whispered,  with  a  covert 
smile. 

"He'll  wish  he  was  young,  as  we  are,  so  that  he  could 
love — as  we  do,"  he  replied  triumphantly. 

Diana  laughed  at  him  for  an  arrogant  lover,  then  sighed 
at  a  memory  she  knew  of. 

"I  think  he  has  loved — as  we  do,"  she  chided  gently. 

Max's  arm  tightened  round  her. 

"Then  he's  in  need  of  envy,  beloved,  for  love  like  ours  ia 
the  most  wonderful  thing  life  has  to  give." 

They  were  silent  a  moment,  and  then  the  quick  instinct 
of  lovers  told  them  they  were  no  longer  alone. 

Baroni  stood  on  the  threshold  of  the  room,  frowning 
heavily. 

"So!"  he  exclaimed,  grimly  addressing  Max.  "This, 
then,  is  how  you  travel  in  haste  to  Paris  ?" 

Startled,  Diana  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  would  have  drawn 
herself  away,  but  Max  laughed  joyously,  and  still  keeping 
her  hand  in  his,  led  her  towards  Baroni. 


288  THE  SPLENDID  FOLLY 

"We  travel  to  Paris  to-morrow,"  he  said.  ''Won't  you — 
wish  us  luck,  Baroni?" 

But  luck  was  the  last  thing  which  the  old  maestro  was  by 
way  of  wishing  them.  Eor  long  he  argued  and  expostulated 
upon  the  madness,  as  he  termed  it,  of  Diana's  renouncing 
her  career,  trying  his  utmost  to  dissuade  her. 

"You  haf  not  counted  the  cost !"  he  fumed  at  her.     "Y 
cannot  haf  counted  the  cost !" 

But  Diana  only  smiled  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  have.    And  I'm  glad  it's  going  to  cost  me  si 
thing — a  good  deal,  in  fact — to  go  back  to  Max.     Don't  y. 
see,  Maestro,  it  kind  of  squares  things  the  tiniest  bit  ?"     She 
paused,  adding,  after  a  moment:     "And  it's  such  a  little 
price  to  pay — for  love." 

Baroni,  who,  after  all,  knew  a  good  deal  about  love  as  well 
as  music,  regarded  her  a  moment  in  silence.  Then,  with  a 
characteristic  shrug  of  his  massive  shoulders,  he  yielded. 

"So,  then,  the  most  marvellous  voice  of  the  century  is  tc 
be  wasted  reading  aloud  to  a  Grand  Duchess !  Ah !  Dearest 
of  all  my  pupils,  there  is  no  folly  in  all  the  world  at  once  so 
foolish  and  so  splendid  as  the  folly  of  love." 


THE   END 


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